


An End to Loneliness

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Don't get too attached to this teen rating ok, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grey Warden Alistair (Dragon Age), Mutual Pining, OK two shot, One Shot, POV Alternating, Warden Bethany Hawke, three shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-14 06:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Bethany, he mouths in the darkness. Bethany. It's foolish, but he likes the way it feels in his mouth. Lips pressed together, the little huff of air on the first syllable, the tip of his tongue between teeth, and ending with his mouth parted just slightly. It feels like a kiss: the good part, not the oh-dear-sorry-Alistair-this-was-a-mistake part. The part full of soft promise and yearning, and an end to loneliness.Bethany.-





	1. empty matchboxes //sand // serendipity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarsaparillia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarsaparillia/gifts).

> Here I am in Bethistair hell! This is a stand-alone work. Seriously, it's going nowhere. Ignore any suggestion of future plot. DEAD END.
> 
> Prompt: empty matchboxes // sand // serendipity

Lucien ducks as he enters the cave, fair hair plastered to his head. "Stroud's team's on the way up," he says over the noise of the storm. "Got a recruit." He sits by Gerod, clasping his arm in silent greeting. 

"A recruit?" Alistair pauses in oiling his blade. "From the Deep Roads? Is it a dwarf?" 

The Orlesian curtly shakes his head. "Not a dwarf. Woman."

This is enough to make heads turn. "Dwarves can be women too, you know," Alistair points out reasonably. 

"Not this one."

"What's she look like?" pipes up Cooper. 

Lucien shrugs. "It was dark."

Cooper spits out the wad of spindleweed he's been chewing, setting off a mutter of disgust from the other men. He's a stocky Northerner, a junior warden - almost the only kind they have these days, from this side of the border at least. He'd be considered ill-favoured at the best of times, but in the past days half his face has swollen with toothache.

"No point asking _ your _ thoughts on a woman anyway, I s'pose," he says sourly, and Gerod hides a smile. 

"How far off are they?" Alistair asks. It can't be far; the man was off scouting just after they made camp, and it's just on dusk. 

"Not long now," Lucien confirms. "They travel slowly; the woman, she is weak."

"Weak how?" It's not a promising-sounding trait in a recruit, _ weakness. _

"Sick," the scout clarifies, unslinging the quiver from his back. "Blight." Even in his native tongue, Lucien is more free with arrows than with words. 

"Fuckin' wonderful." Sharp is in a foul mood, having struggled for the past hour to coax a blaze from soggy driftwood. "A pity conscript. Just what we need."

"Stroud wouldn't bring her in without more cause than that," says Alistair. "Do I really need to remind you that the Warden-Commander was tainted before she joined our ranks? We don't take on recruits out of pity."

"How d'you explain Coop then?" 

The other men guffaw; Cooper protests, but at least the mood has lightened. A week on the Storm Coast subsisting on hardtack and water-weeds has done little for morale, and their squad haven't been together long enough to develop any real camaraderie. 

If Lyna were here she'd win the men over with little gifts and thoughtful questions. But Lyna is overseeing the repairs at Vigil's Keep and trying to rebuild their fractured order; somehow, Alistair doubts he'd get the same results as a pocket-sized, bright-eyed elf. 

He explores that thought: a lesser pain perhaps than Cooper's tooth, but yes, it still aches. 

The rain has abated somewhat but the cold persists. "How's that fire coming?" he asks Sharp. "We won't be able to see a thing soon." Sharp throws him a glare perfected over years in the Gwaren alienage. 

"You have a bloody go if you think you can do better, Your Grace."

Ignoring the jibe, Alistair crouches next to the elf. "Flint? Don't we have a few boxes of those dwarven matches left?" He checked before leaving the last cache; they can't have gone through them so quickly.

"Oh aye, we've got the boxes." Sharp indicates a pile of empty matchboxes by the cave wall, evidently thrown there with some force. "What we don't have is matches. Some fool's been putting them back empty." 

"Cooper," Alistair calls, tossing a broken box at his feet, "we talked about this."

"Sorry Alistair." He sounds as though he's talking through a mouthful of marbles. 

"How's that tooth?" 

"'S'been better."

"Give me a look." He fishes in his jerkin for a squarish piece of stone inscribed with a light rune. It's very nearly spent, reserved only for emergencies, but something in the boy's voice… "Maker's breath, Coop!" 

The light attracts everyone's attention; around him he hears the sharp intake of breath. Cooper's swollen cheek has turned pink and shiny, and the boy's eyes are dull with pain. 

"This needs a healer. A proper healer."

"The closest would be Highever," someone says. 

"He's not going to make it to Highever," says Sharp. "Leastways not in any state some hedge witch or jumped-up apothecary is going to help with."

_ Shit. Shit. _ Alistair didn't see the boy through the Joining and a dozen skirmishes just to lose him to a Void-blasted toothache. "There must be _ something _ we can do."

"All our draughts and poultices didn't stop it getting this far. What do you think we can do now?" 

"I'm not deaf," mutters Cooper. 

"It's fine, Coop," Alistair says. "You'll be fine."

The light stutters and fails. 

"We'll have to take it out," says Sharp, and Cooper groans. 

_ We should have done that days ago, _ thinks Alistair. "We can't even _ see." _

Sharp kicks at the damp wood. "And whose fault is that, eh?" 

"What do we use?" 

"A dirk's better than nothing."

In the encroaching dark he can sense their eyes on him; all except Lucien and Gerod, who have stationed themselves by the cave mouth. 

_ What would Duncan do? _

The eyes he sees are the cool green of spring foliage, and a lilting voice answers his question. _ Duncan's gone, Alistair. What will _ you _ do? _

He should have stayed with Lyna. He's not cut out for leadership, he's only in charge by virtue of living through the Blight. There's a reason they don't call _ him _Hero of Ferelden. 

_ Stop that, Alistair. They need you to lead, so lead. _

"Do you have a clean knife?" he asks. 

The elf grunts, offended. "Clean as I can manage. Not covered in darkspawn blood, if that's what you mean."

"One without any of your poisons on it would be good."

"Are you going to do it?" 

"I'll have to try."

"In the dark?" 

_ Maferath's wrinkly bollocks, this is why I shouldn't be in charge. _

"Right, well keep trying on that fire. Those matchboxes should burn, shouldn't they? With any luck Stroud will be here soon and he'll have more matches, or dry tinder, or…something."

"They're here," comes Lucien's call. 

_ Thank the Maker. _He makes his way to the entrance. A handful of figures can be seen emerging from the blue darkness, slowed by the rain and the wet, sucking sand. 

"Stroud!" he shouts. "Over here!" 

The weary Wardens pick up pace, and soon he can see shadows that hint of Stroud's familiar face, his moustache a dark smudge in the middle of his features. 

"Alistair," he calls as they near. "Why are you waiting around in the dark?"

Alistair rubs a hand over his chin. "Well, the wood's quite damp. And we ran out of matches, so…" He curses the fate that put him at equal rank with the finest swordsman in the order, a trained Chevalier and no doubt someone who could teach his men to light a fire in a dry cave. 

"Hawke," the man says, turning back to his troop. When there's no response, he barks again, "Hawke!" 

"Sorry." It's a woman's voice, soft and cultured. Young, if he judges correctly. "Can I help?" 

"Light. And see to the fire."

"Yes, ser." A blue-white glow blossoms at the end of a staff, and Alistair is momentarily blinded. Before his eyes can adjust the girl has moved away into the cave; there's a blaze, then a hiss, and the damp driftwood has become a merry fire. 

_ A mage. _A thought occurs to him: "Miss…Hawke? Can you heal?" 

He sees blurred features turn in his direction. "A little. It's not my specialty."

"A little is better than what we have." He locates Cooper, eyes half shut with misery and his face so red and tight he fancies he can feel the heat rolling off it. Crouching down, he asks his junior, "How do you feel?" 

"Mmph."

Behind him he hears the recruit gasp. "Oh my. Could someone fetch water? Salt water. We'll need it boiled and cooled." She kneels beside Alistair, and from the corner of his eye he spots an expanse of bared shoulder. Maker, couldn't Stroud have found her a cloak? The girl must be freezing. All her attention, however, is on Cooper. 

"Can you open your mouth?" The boy does his best, and she murmurs an apology as she shines the light of her staff close to his eyes. "This doesn't look good. If we can extract the tooth, I should be able to draw out the infection. Do you have elfroot?" 

"Only dried." 

"That will have to do."

Stroud has been rummaging in his pack; he pulls out a pair of metal pliers from a roll of tools. 

"What do you keep that for?" asks Alistair. 

"Extracting teeth."

"Oh. Right."

"Can we boil those in an elfroot solution?" asks the newcomer. "And then…gauze? Or linen?" 

"Linen we can manage." 

"Boil that too, then we'll dry it over the fire."

For someone who doesn't specialise in healing, she's astonishingly efficient. It makes Alistair wonder what her specialty _is._ Finally they're able to wrench out Cooper's rotten tooth - he makes a sound like a druffalo in labour - and staunch the bleeding with linen, while the mage puts a cooling hand to his cheek and settles the inflammation. By the end he's fast asleep, and she's drooping also. 

"Thank the Maker you arrived when you did," says Alistair. "We'd have been lost without you."

Her silence makes him look up, finally, and his mouth grows dry. She's tired, that much is obvious, and her recent ordeals show in the shadows beneath her eyes and in her hollow cheeks. But _ oh, _she's pretty, with her kind brown eyes, and the little flush of embarrassment when she realises the pause has become awkward. 

"Sorry," she says. "People aren't usually that happy to see me."

Alistair smiles. "Oh, I doubt that very much."

Her eyes widen, and he curses himself. _ Fool, can't you work within a league of a woman without…whatever it is you're doing? _ "Are you hungry? We can't offer much beyond hardtack, I'm afraid. Of course by _ much, _I mean that's all we have."

"I don't mind. I've been underground for a while now, I'll eat anything."

"Oh, of course. The Joining. Well, I wish we had more to offer. You must be starving…Hawke, is it?" 

"Please call me Bethany," she offers. "Hawke is what people call my sister. I can't get used to it for myself."

"Bethany," he says, and her smile is like sunshine. 

The morning breaks clear and cold. Alistair isn't the first up; Lucien sits close by Gerod, restringing his longbow as the other man sands his breastplate. Outside the horizon is washed in the colour of straw, sunrise having passed while he slept. 

He relieves himself against a rocky outcrop, realising too late that he's not alone. Bethany Hawke sits on the shore. Her boots are tossed carelessly aside; her feet are buried in the sand. In the daylight he can see her hair is a dark brown, falling in waves over her bare shoulders.

"Sorry about that."

"Please don't be." She glances up at him and he's struck by the sadness behind her reluctant smile. She looks beyond tired; there are smudges of blue beneath her eyes and her skin retains a greyish tint. Her lips are chapped, her eyes red, and he thinks she just might be the most beautiful thing he's seen since…well.

"We didn't give you much chance to rest last night, did we?" He eases himself down next to her. "For someone who's not a healer you were pretty impressive."

Bethany ducks her head in embarrassment, tucking a dark lock behind her ear. "I have a friend who's a healer. I suppose I've picked up a thing or two."

"A thing or two? You saved a man's life."

"The Wardens saved mine."

"I suppose we're even, then."

"No." Bitterness doesn't sit well on her; it seems to go against her very nature. "Because I can't walk away now, can I?" 

"I suppose not." It was a hard thing to get used to, the taint crawling beneath your skin. "At least you're not dying though, right?" 

"Not as quickly."

The weak sunshine holds little warmth, but at least there's no threat of another deluge in the next while. Alistair pulls off his boots and damp socks, joining her in digging his toes into the sand. "You're stuck with us, I'm afraid," he says as lightly as he can. "At least you don't need to worry about Templars any more."

"I should be relieved, really."

"But you're not?" 

"It turns out there are worse things than the Circle."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he says. "You can stay up as late as you like, and these new uniforms are quite nice. And the Satinalia party at Vigil's Keep is something to see. There's cake!" 

He manages to get a huff of laughter from her, before a rogue wave creeps up and grabs at their toes. 

"Maker's breath, that's _ freezing!" _

"Where are we?" she asks with a little frown. "We went into the Deep Roads near Kirkwall, but this…somewhere near Cumberland? The sea is to the north…"

"We're on the Storm Coast."

"Ferelden?" She turns to him, mouth agape. "But the Deep Roads under the Waking Sea are meant to be sealed."

"They are," he says with a wink. "Completely impassable."

"Ferelden," she repeats. "Well, that's…"

"Have you been here before?" 

"You could say that." Her mouth twists. "I grew up here. We fled Lothering in the Blight."

"Oh." He remembers Lothering: the straggling rows of tents, the reek of desperation. "I was there just before the darkspawn hit. I don't recall seeing you." _ You only had eyes for one girl at that stage, you fool. _

"You wouldn't. I didn't get out much."

"No? Why - oh yes, that's right. I was nearly a templar, you know? And I'm not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to tell _ you _ that."

Fortunately she doesn't seem to mind. "Was it the Blight that stopped you?" 

"No. It's a long story."

Bethany stares out over the ocean, and he wonders who she left behind in the Free Marches. The thought comes with an unexpected pang of jealousy. 

"I must report to Fontaine," Stroud says over breakfast. His eyes dart to Bethany. "Strange things have been uncovered in the Deep Roads. Weisshaupt will wish to know. As to the details, your recruit can fill you in."

"My -?" Alistair pauses with a strip of hardtack halfway to his mouth. "She won't be going with you?" 

"Ferelden is in need of _Fereldan_ Wardens, is it not? And you have only one mage left, since Anders..." He glowers at the thought, for some reason looking again at Bethany. "Either way, we leave from here this morning. A group of Orlesians this side of the border could attract the wrong sort of attention. I take it you will make for Vigil's Keep?" 

"Soldiers Peak," Alistair says, surprising himself. "It's closer, and we need new kit. Wade might just cry if he has to make an ordinary recruit's uniform; it's a better job for the Drydens. Besides, we haven't checked in there in a while."

Stroud shrugs. "It's your Warden-Commander who needs your justifications, not I." He stands, nodding at Bethany. "Anders was right about you, Hawke. You will do well."

Anders…? Alistair has never met the man, but he knows of Lyna's displeasure after he vanished. This story gets more and more strange. 

He takes a moment to introduce Bethany to the crew, such as they are. Cooper, whose grin is pained but grateful. Sharp, Ned from the Bannorn and Bones, hailing from amongst the surface dwellers outside Orzammar. Lucien and Gerod. 

"They're Orlesian," he explains, "but we try to keep that quiet for Fereldan reasons." The two men, always a single unit in Alistair's mind, have been Grey Wardens longer than Alistair himself. It's rumoured that Gerod turned down a sizeable promotion to join his companion in Ferelden; by all rights he should be in charge, but he seems content to swing his broadsword under Alistair's command. 

Gerod kisses Bethany's hand in greeting. "Don't worry," Alistair tells the bemused recruit, "he did that to me when we met."

"It's lovely to meet you all," she says, and blushes. "I mean…hello."

"Manners never go astray, Mademoiselle Hawke," Gerod reassures her. 

"Oh. Bethany, please. Just call me Bethany." And Alistair sees some of the tension leave her shoulders. 

They make good progress; she keeps up without complaint, already looking less ashen than this morning. Maker, she must have been close to death; Lyna never looked so ill, even before her Joining. 

Bethany doesn't give much of herself away, which is hardly surprising for an apostate. But his men are not so churlish they can't be won over by sweetness, and that she proves to have in spades. The bitterness of earlier has been stowed away somewhere deep, and he makes a note not to let it fester. 

There's something so soft about her, he can scarcely believe that she might be capable of defending herself. Until a stray band of darkspawn wander across their path and she _ obliterates _ them, a hard line to her mouth that speaks of a private vendetta. 

"Well," he says as she steps delicately over the corpses. "That was impressive."

"I get by," she says with a shrug. "You know, that was almost fun."

When it comes time to make camp she seems lost, fidgeting with the scarf at her neck as she watches the men set out their bedrolls. 

"You can sleep here," he offers, indicating a space between him and the cliff face. "If you want. Or somewhere else."

"Those would seem to be my options." But she gives him a hesitant smile as she sets down her pack, and he feels the ground shift a little further from his feet. 

"Are you _ the _Alistair?" she asks. It sounds as if she's been working up the courage, and he can't summon up the annoyance he usually feels at the question. 

"I don't know about _ the _Alistair, but I haven't met another. Apparently there was a pot boy at the Gnawed Noble once called Alistair, but he died of the frost-cough."

"Alistair…"

Privately he vows to annoy her more, if it means she'll say his name like that. "Warden Alistair, veteran of the Blight, at your service."

"Veteran," she says, "but not Hero?" 

"Oh no." He threads his fingers together over his chest, looking up at the stars. "That title went to someone much more heroic."

"But didn't you fight the archdemon together?" 

"She struck the killing blow. No point in having extra heroes around the place, it just complicates things." _ Plus where people see a hero, they can too readily see a king. _"It doesn't bother me. You'll meet her one day, it really does suit her."

"Were you and she ever -" She claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, that's none of my business. Cooper said…_ Maker, _Bethany, what's wrong with you?" 

"Cooper, huh? Remind me to pull out his tongue next time." It hurts somehow less than before. _ Is that all it takes, after all this time? Distract myself with something shiny? _

"I wasn't really her type," he says breezily. "Not red-headed enough. Too male."

"Oh." She thinks for a moment. "Someone once told me that men are only good for one thing; women are good for six."

"Six?" His voice rises to a surprised squeak. "Which six?" 

"I have no idea," she says, and they break into muffled laughter. 

"You're full of surprises, Bethany Hawke." He rolls to face her. "What took you into the Deep Roads?" 

"Money," she says bitterly. "And we found it. Well done, sister."

"You know Anders?" 

"He's more Marian's friend than mine. But that's how it goes with Marian." She seems to shake herself out of some unhappy place. "Do you know him?" 

"Only by reputation."

"Well," she says, "it's probably true." She yawns, covering her mouth with the backs of her fingers. "Excuse me."

"No, excuse me. I should let you rest."

"Good night, Alistair."

"Good night, Bethany."

_ Bethany, _ he mouths in the darkness. _ Bethany. _ It's foolish, but he likes the way it feels in his mouth. Lips pressed together, the little huff of air on the first syllable, the tip of his tongue between teeth, and ending with his mouth parted just slightly. It feels like a kiss: the good part, not the _ oh-dear-sorry-Alistair-this-was-a-mistake _part. The part full of soft promise and yearning, and an end to loneliness. 

_ Bethany. _

_ Bethany, Bethany, Bethany. _


	2. white magic // pears // sunsick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look a bit more appeared

Bethany's life over the past year has involved far too many tunnels. Tunnels under ruins, under mountains and beachside cliffs, under the stinking, twisted bowels of Kirkwall. Haunted tunnels, cursed tunnels, tunnels filled with smugglers and blood mages and giant, scuttling spiders. 

Over time they all begin to look the same. 

Then came the darkest tunnel of all, the one Mother begged her not to go down. Or more accurately begged _Marian_, over her head, because Bethany is still a child in her eyes. A precious secret to be protected at all costs, even the cost of her own agency. 

_The last tunnel,_ she thought when the decay crept into her bloodstream. And _She'll blame Marian for this; somehow she always blames Marian. _

"Nearly there."

Cheerful Alistair, how is he so cheerful even down here in the dank dark? But he's right, she sees. A grey light seeps in and the still air stirs with the promise of open sky. 

Tunnels are to be her lot in life, it seems. 

The mining tunnels leading up to Soldiers Peak are at least well-maintained, although Alistair says it wasn't always so. The Drydens have been busy boarding up the unused passages and clearing away obstacles. 

"Although Maker knows where they find the time," Alistair tells her, "between smithing and trading and cleaning up the fortress."

"Was it very run down?" 

He makes a show of shuddering. "You could say that. The previous tenants left quite the mess."

"Tenants? I thought it was abandoned?" 

"There's abandoned and there's _abandoned_."

He throws her a smile over his shoulder, and her stomach flips. _Stop that,_ she chides herself. He's her commanding officer. She's known him for less than a week, and while he's attractive, and funny, and charming in a self-effacing way…she's just lost her sister, the star around which all the galaxy turns, and she's wary of getting sucked into another person's orbit so soon. 

Besides, if the men's gossip is to be believed - and Maker, can they gossip! - he's half in love with the Warden-Commander. If it's true then Bethany is hardly his type. Next to willowy Merrill she always felt she was too much: too tall, too round, too graceless. 

She's never felt comfortable taking up space. 

Bones sniffs the air. "Smells like daylight."

"Daylight doesn't have a smell." It's difficult to tell in the low light, but Alistair might be rolling his eyes in Bethany's direction. 

"Says the surfacer," Bones grumbles. He's never set foot in Orzammar, but there are surfacers and _surfacers_. "S'not safe to go up in the daylight."

"Why? Surely it's easier to see where you're going when you fall into the sky."

"You know well why."

It has the flavour of a well-worn conversation. "Oh, yes. We'll all be sunsick."

"Perhaps not all. You never know when it might hit, my dad said. He came up out of Orzammar round midday. Few days later he's running around up top with his trousers on his head, yodelling about the nugs swarming up from the Deep Roads."

"Remind me, Bones, had he been drinking?" 

Bones hawks and spits off to his side. "Don't see as how's that's relevant."

Alistair grins back at the dwarf, a flash of white teeth in the growing light. "You're welcome to wait in the tunnels 'til nightfall. The rest of us will be up at the Peak drinking mead and warming our toes by the fire, but at least the sunsickness won't get you."

"Fine," he sniffs. "I've done it before, I'll do it again. Don't say I didn't warn you when I'm standing up in the rookery flapping my arms like a crow."

"When that day arrives, I'll be flapping alongside you."

With each step, Bethany sees the daylight advance. Half of her wants to run ahead, leaving behind the damp, claustrophobic mine shaft. The other half hangs back, reluctant to meet the next chapter of her life. 

Whatever her preference, her feet lead her forward. Above ground the landscape is littered with patches of brilliant white, the path ahead lined with cold, clear streams of snow melt. It's an assault on the senses: the cool, bright grey of the sky, the cacophony of birdsong, the scent of new earth and pine needles, the bite of the mountain air. 

"I've never seen this place without snow before." Alistair kicks at a small drift. "With so little snow, anyway. I can hardly imagine it as anything but frozen."

"It's beautiful," says Bethany, and immediately feels foolish. Alistair is looking down at her with that grin. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he says softly. "It is."

He's looking at her face when he says it. _That doesn't mean anything. _

It's no time at all before the keep's entrance comes into view, two squat towers framing the raised portcullis. 

"They were talking about putting in a pear orchard last time I was here. Not Levi…Mickael…Ethan? I swear there are more Drydens here every time I visit. Anyway, pears might be nice."

"Pears…" she says wistfully. "We had a pear tree in Lothering. Father used to make perry in the autumn, and Marian would sit in the branches and throw the spent fruit at Carver."

"Carver?" Marian he's heard of, when she told the story of the expedition, but Carver is new. 

Suddenly she's back in Gamlen's rat-hole, Mother's suffocating grief wrapping around them like a blanket. 

"My brother. He didn't make it out of Lothering." She can still hear him _breaking_. "He was my twin." After all this time, it still sticks in her throat like a fish bone.

"I'm sorry." Alistair's hand falls tentatively on her shoulder. "The Blight was…well, it's hard to find anyone who didn't lose someone. But a twin must be very difficult."

_Difficult_. Such a small word. She's heard of people missing a phantom limb, but a phantom twin? She always felt less than a whole person in Marian's shadow, and she knew Carver felt the same. Then suddenly Carver was gone and she was even less than before. 

Not her fault. Marian didn't ask to be larger than life. She's just muddling through, same as everyone. 

"Do you have any family?" she asks in an attempt to banish the ghost of Lothering. 

He hesitates long enough to show her the question is anything but straightforward. "No."

The walk up is completed in silence, but for the crunch of boots in snow. 

"Levi! Well met!" he says as they approach the trader's stall. 

"Alistair." The men exchange a friendly clasp of arms as the rest of the Wardens trudge up the stairs. Bethany hangs back, unsure of her place. 

"This is Bethany." She likes the way it sounds, her name on his lips. Levi Dryden greets her with a nod. "She's our new recruit. Which reminds me, I should send a bird to Vigil's Keep." 

"The rookery's up there now," Dryden says, indicating a tower joined to the fortress by a narrow stone bridge. "My cousin's girl sees to the birds."

"Girl? Cousin?" Alistair shakes himself. "How many of you are there now?" 

"Just the five. Or eight, counting the children." 

"_Children_? Oh. Well. Any Dryden is welcome at Soldiers Peak, to be sure." 

Levi looks uncomfortable. "Our name wasn't quite cleared, if you get my drift. Most are still content to be merchants, but some would rather take their chances in service to the Wardens." He clears his throat. "If the Warden-Commander doesn't mind, of course."

"I don't see how she could." The outside of the keep is immaculate; the smithy rings with the musical sound of industry, and a plot of freshly-turned earth is growing neat rows of seedlings. "It seems you're more than earning your keep." Alistair chuckles at himself. "Your keep. Haha! Sorry."

Bethany hides a smile in her shoulder. 

The ground floor is made up of entrance hall, kitchens and staff quarters ("Soon to be overrun by Drydens" Alistair says, poking his tongue out at a wide-eyed toddler). The Wardens occupy the second floor. 

"You can take this room - wait there for a second." He peers around the door. "Oh good, it's been cleaned. We'll need to put in a bed. What else? Wardrobe?" 

The room is small but serviceable. She can't remember ever having a room of her own. "Cleaned?" she asks tentatively. "What happened in here?" The Veil is thin all around the keep; she could feel it tingling on her skin as they approached. 

"Oh, nothing particular in here. At least -" He scrunches his nose. "Nothing that didn't happen everywhere else. Demons, undead…you know."

She'd like to say she doesn't, but Kirkwall…"There's a story to this place, isn't there?" 

"There is," he says, "but it's probably best told over a hot meal. And ale. Do you drink ale?" 

She did at the Hanged Man; it's safer than the water. "That sounds good."

It's a tale, to be sure. The Hero is the space around which the story is told; if she had any doubt before, now she knows he's in love. 

The stew is good, prepared by Levi's sister-in-law at short notice, and the ale is like nothing Corff ever served up: crisp and malty, the amber colour of Alistair's eyes. He's surprised too. "I don't know where Levi found this, but I think we should get more. Everyone will want to join the Wardens!" 

Bethany smiles weakly. "So what happens now?" she asks, looking around the spacious common room. "How soon do we go back into the Deep Roads?" 

Alistair moves his hand towards hers, stopping short with a twitch of his fingers. "You've been through a lot, Bethany. It's a shock, becoming…what we are. I'd like to give you time to adjust." He swallows hard. "Lyna…the Warden-Commander was thrown straight into battle after her Joining. Ostagar, and the Blight. Uniting the kingdom. I was less help than I should have been, and none of it was easy on her."

"You don't need to coddle me."

"This isn't coddling," he says, clenching his fist. "It's the same respect I've granted to every new recruit since the Blight ended. The same respect that was given to me by…by my mentor, Duncan." _It's hard to find anyone who didn't lose someone._ "Build up your strength, study your enemy and you'll be a better Warden for it. We go up against the darkspawn as a team. You need to learn how to work with your unit, and the best place to start isn't underground, surrounded by darkspawn. It's right here."

When he grins, his eyes crinkle. "Besides, you nearly died. We want you recovered enough to save all our arses if need be."

Bethany can't help but mirror his smile. "I'll do my best." _It's an arse worth saving,_ Isabela would say if she was here. She blushes, hoping it doesn't show on her face. 

Alistair's fingers are still within reach of her own; he hesitates before giving her a brotherly clap on the shoulder. "I have a feeling your best will be something to see," he says, and there's a flutter behind her ribcage.

Spring marches on. Blossoms kiss the tips of the trees and the newly planted pear saplings grow stronger and taller by the day. Fennecs and hares stir in the undergrowth, rain showers appear and vanish within minutes, vegetables grow fat in the little plot in the courtyard. 

She doesn't come to terms with the crawling wrongness inside her, but she can go hours on end without thinking about it. The nightmares fade in the light. 

The mountain fortress could hardly be more removed from Kirkwall, or even the small-town bustle of Lothering, but there is plenty to occupy her days. The library is a hodge-podge of newer texts and dusty tomes from before the time of King Arland; she devours Warden history, ferreting books away in her little room. 

There's much to be absorbed from the banter of her fellow Wardens, even those who only joined since the Blight. Bones has the stories of his ancestors to draw on, despite never having set foot in Orzammar; he yearns for the dwarven underground in a way Varric would find perverse. The two Orlesians have been Wardens longer than anyone, and while Lucien is as reticent as ever, Gerod loves to expound on the Order as a whole, complete with voices and mannerisms of the higher-ups. 

Marian would like him, she thinks. They'd all like him. He'd even win Fenris over. 

Invisible threads still bind her, running north to Kirkwall. And to Lothering, tugging ever more weakly. Father isn't there, Carver isn't there; even Lothering isn't there, not really. The pear tree by the cottage is blighted and barren and dead. 

So is Bethany. 

Yet the weak mountain sunshine is still warm on her face. Her companions make her laugh, she magics little patterns of frost for the Dryden children and delights in their gurgles. Happiness can be found in the soft caws of the ravens, the greening of the land, the strange taste of freedom from the helmeted glare of templars. 

And in Alistair. 

_Sunshine_, Varric called her. _Because you're all sweetness and light, Bethy,_ Marian said with a wink, but Bethany recognised the irony behind the nickname. She wore her unhappiness like a shroud, but only Varric saw it. Sweet Bethany, kind Bethany. Scared, angry Bethany with swords for hands and knives for fingers. 

Alistair, though… Alistair _is_ sunshine. Golden and life-giving, she could bask in his presence until it burns her raw. It does, at times. She'll catch him looking at her and something in his eyes warms her all the way down to her toes. She has to look away; too much sunshine makes you blind. 

She pens a letter to Marian, full of bitterness and ingratitude, one she wishes back as soon as the wagon creaks away. Another to Mother, full of reassuring lies. She hopes they won't compare notes. 

A room of her own: no one to nail her braid to the bedpost. No one to blunder in stinking of Corff's whiskey in the middle of the night and envelop her in a fierce bear hug. No one to witness her tossing and turning in the grip of yet another darkspawn dream. 

She's fitted for armour, and it arrives: silver and blue, sleek and comfortable. 

"Mickael does good work," Alistair says, with _that_ smile. 

Maker help her, she's sunsick. 

Summer brings clear skies, most of the time. It brings a convoy of little wagons through the tunnels, bearing fabrics and metals and another Dryden ("Our sister's boy, he'll be prentice to Mickael"), a nanny goat and a crate full of distinctly unimpressed chickens. There are sacks of grain, barrels of fruit, enough mead and ale to see them through summer if Oghren doesn't visit. 

Alistair helps sundry merchant Drydens in unloading the wagons and carrying goods up the stairs. "I don't know what we'll have more of by the next Blight," he jokes to Bethany, "Grey Wardens or Drydens." 

She gives him a wan smile. "Can I help?" 

"That's just about everything, I think." He prises the top of a barrel. "Here!" 

Bethany catches the tossed fruit in one hand. "A pear?" 

"A _barrel_ of pears. Our trees won't bear fruit for a while, and I thought I remembered you like them, so…" Did she say that? He starts to doubt himself. "It doesn't matter if you don't. I like them, and I'm sure the Drydens like them or they wouldn't have planted all those trees. They won't go to waste."

"Thank you, Alistair." It's a proper smile now: laughing _with_, laughing _at_, he doesn't care so long as she's laughing. She takes a bite of fruit, catching the dribbling juice with the back of her wrist. "I do like them, but I'm happy to share."

There's a slim book hanging from her free hand. "Found anything interesting?" he asks. 

"Oh, this? _Force Magic._ Third edition, volume 24." 

"It's a good read, then?" 

She makes a face. "Dry. But nearly everything I know about magic I learnt from my father; I'm trying to broaden my horizons."

"Your father must have been an impressive mage."

"He was," she says, and the laughter is gone from her brown eyes. "He was an impressive man."

"To outwit the Chantry and raise a family in apostasy? I'll say."

"Yes, well…somehow he skipped over force magic. I have to admit it sounds appealing to be able to throw my enemies around like pebbles."

"I can think of many times I would have found that useful. Not all of them combat situations."

"That's the last of it," says a Dryden cousin, dumping a sack of rye flour by the front doors. Ned appears without a word, hoisting up a pair of sacks and making for the kitchens. "We'll work on opening up the mountain pass before winter. Might be we can get more goods up this way if we don't need to rely on the tunnels."

"It would save us some time in travelling west as well," Alistair says. "We might be able to lend some help if we don't have business elsewhere."

The man grunts. "Levi will let you know." He nods towards the open doorway. "Nita."

"Hello, uncle." Nita Dryden is a softly-spoken, slow-moving girl of fourteen, more comfortable with ravens than with people. "Message for you, Miss Bethany." She looks at her feet as she holds out the tightly-furled vellum. 

"Thank you, Nita." Bethany looks to Alistair. "I should…"

"Yes, by all means, go read your letter. Nita, would you like to help the chickens get settled in?" 

"Chickens?" She brightens. "Yessir." 

"No sers here, Miss Dryden." He steals a glance at Bethany; she's rolling the unopened message between her fingers, a little frown marring her brow.

He hopes it's happy news. 

Later, he follows the sound of loud crashing to the practice yard. An empty crate flies apart on the far wall, closely followed by a practice dummy. Its seams burst on impact, and sawdust rains down on the flagstones. 

Alistair doesn't know if it's a side effect of his aborted templar training, or something everyone feels: every mage he sees in action has a particular feel to their magic. Emissary magic is sick and black and reeks of decay. Wynne's is blue-green, cool and soothing as a trickle of water. Morrigan's is shocking purple-red, crushed blood lotus and dragon scales. 

Bethany's magic is white. Not the crisp white of snow, but the soft white of blossoms and fresh milk. Even bent to destruction as it is now, it's white. There's a purity to it matched only by the clean lines of her movement, the spare grace with which she spins and casts, wielding her heavy staff as easily as breathing. 

He could watch her forever. 

It's not to be: she's run out of things to break, and she catches him leaning on the balustrade with a foolish smile on his face. 

"Sorry," she says, looking around at her handiwork. "I may have gotten a little carried away there."

"I'm sure they deserved it." He vaults the railing to help her clean up. "This one in particular," he says as he collects the emptied skin of a dummy from amongst the carnage. "I never liked his attitude. Shifty, you know?" 

When he looks back at her she's pensive, playing with a lock of her dark hair. 

"He died valiantly," he says. "We could build a pyre, if you like?" 

"That sounds lovely," she answers absently. 

"That's settled, then. Full Warden honours. Should we invite the Commander?" 

Bethany looks at him with a frown. "Pardon?" 

He sits on the balustrade, patting the stone beside him. "I take it you've had bad news?" 

She settles with a deep sigh. "No, not really. The opposite, if anything."

Alistair is silent, waiting for her to continue. 

"You'll think I'm the worst person ever."

"I doubt that. I've met some genuinely terrible people."

"My mother was a noble in Kirkwall before she ran away with my father. She should have inherited her family's estate, but my uncle gambled everything away. The money from the Deep Roads expedition has allowed my sister to buy it back." She looks sideways, gauging his reaction. 

"Don't mind me, I'm just waiting for the part where you're evil personified. I didn't miss it, did I?" 

She graces him with a reluctant smile. "I should be happy for them. I am. I can't even say what's wrong, really…"

"Can I try?" He waits for her nod. "You've had to deal with a big change. You've been separated from your family and friends, you're doomed to spend your life fighting darkspawn until you die an early death, probably at the hands of darkspawn. But you've been trying to look on the bright side."

Bethany closes her eyes. 

"Sorry," he says. "It sounds pretty brutal when I say it out loud."

"It's all true though, isn't it?" 

"Unfortunately, yes. And now the life you left behind has changed. And that makes the bright side look a bit less bright by comparison. Is that about it?" 

"That's it exactly," she says. "I don't feel any less petty, though."

He puts his hands on his knees, the only way he can keep from gathering her into a bone-crushing hug. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're petty. I think you're wonderful."

Her laugh is pure, white magic. "Thank you, Alistair. I don't know about wonderful, but you've made me feel much better."

"Good," he says. "That should buy us time to make more training dummies."

This time her laugh is infectious; they lean against each other, shaking, and his heart is filled with sunshine. 


	3. laundry day // starlight // hoarfrost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look

The next time the merchants arrive they bring with them half a dozen more Drydens (most of whom will stay on) and an array of tools. Work on the mountain pass begins in earnest, and soon a day's passage can be managed to the Southwest. 

"We'll send out a party with you tomorrow," Alistair says over supper. He shakes his head at Levi's protest. "It's not trouble. There's thick forest ahead and worse things than darkspawn might be disturbed. Well…perhaps not worse. But we can't have you running into trouble within spitting distance of a Warden keep, can we? How would that look?" 

The two Orlesians, Cooper, Alistair himself and Bethany make up the team to accompany the crew. The Wardens laugh at Dryden's skepticism; they laugh all the harder when Bethany sends a heavy table careening against the wall. 

"Can your shovels do that, Mister Dryden?" asks Sharp. 

"They cannot," he admits. "Welcome aboard, Mistress Bethany."

Gerolt winks. "Bravo, Princess."

Alistair looks amused and also a touch proud, and it makes her heart swell.

_ Careful _ , _ Bethany. _

* * *

"Why _ Princess?_" he asks Gerod. 

Bethany is wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow. She just shifted a tree the width of a Chantry door from the road, sending it rolling and thundering down the mountainside. She looks flushed and dishevelled and half-exhausted; lovely, Alistair thinks, but hardly regal. 

Gerod's lip twitches. "You are the prince, _non? _" 

"_Non! _ I mean no." This is dangerous talk, for more reason than one. "I'm not, and she's _ not… _"

"Ah, she's not? My mistake." He crosses his arms. "She is impressive."

"You're trying to trap me into something here," Alistair complains. "Don't be so Orlesian."

"I will continue to be Orlesian. You will continue to be Ferelden, and oblivious."

They both know he's not oblivious. 

* * *

Darkspawn are found before they reach the North Road, close to dusk on the third day. She feels it first as a twitch at the back of her neck, then all too quickly an unsettling, writhing feeling in her gut. 

The others move silently, Alistair signalling her to fall in as he passes. They fan out ahead of the Drydens, who hang back, sensing a change in the company. 

There's the crack of branches, a guttural laugh and then they shamble from the trees. Five of them. Four once a genlock is felled by Lucien's first arrow, and each every bit as repulsive to the senses as she remembers. Their discoloured skin stretches too tight over grinning skulls, their battered and mismatched armour covered in all manner of grime and filth. 

For all that their weapons are sharp and their sinewy arms strong. The warriors charge in, and only Bethany's hasty barrier keeps Bones' helmet from being tested to its limits. At last a hurlock is the only one standing; Gerod and Alistair drive it back until it stumbles over a rock face, and before it can regain its footing Bethany deposits a boulder on its head. 

"Well," says Alistair. "That was new! Good work, recruit."

They encounter a few more pockets of darkspawn but they're aimless, not too hard to dispatch. They don't have the terrifying _ intent _of the horde that swept through Lothering. 

Alistair catches her sitting up that night: the moons are hiding below the horizon and he looks different in the starlight, all his gold tones muted to blues and tarnished silvers. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks, settling down beside her. 

"It's strange," she says, "seeing the stars from Ferelden again. My father used to show us the constellations. They look different in Kirkwall, when you can see them."

The alleys of Lowtown are a poor place for stargazing. 

"It must have been nice," he says, a touch wistfully, and she recalls the little she knows of his history: an absent royal father, a childhood in obscurity, his only brother dead at Ostagar. 

"It was." She may have spent her younger days terrified, even before her own magic appeared, but she wasn't alone. "I wish I'd known at the time."

"I'm sure you did."

He's too much. He fills up all the space around her, more so even than Marian because there's nobody else around. 

Bethany looks up at the stars. "All I ever wanted to be was normal."

"That's the world, isn't it? The normal people want to be special, and the special people want to be normal." He hesitates. "Not that I'm saying you're…you know. Special. I would never say that. I mean, I don't want to come across as…" 

"Nice?" 

"Definitely not!" he sputters. "Can't have the new recruits thinking I'm nice. I command through _ fear _." 

"You're very intimidating," she reassures him. "You remind me of the Arishok."

"I learned my best glares from a Qunari."

"Well, it shows." She gets up slowly, brushing the dirt from her palms. "I suppose I should try sleeping again."

"Don't leave on my account," he protests, scrambling to his feet. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not intruding," she assures him. "The stars aren't going anywhere."

"Perhaps you could teach me a constellation or two some time?" He freezes. "That is, if you don't -" 

"I'd love to," she says, and can feel the tension bleed out of him. There's something heartbreaking in the way he finds such relief in the tiniest of friendly gestures. "Good night, Alistair."

* * *

Morning brings a plume of smoke on the horizon. 

"Could be anything," Bones says. "Could be a cook fire." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone. 

It thickens as the day wears on, then peters out. By then they've cleared the undergrowth through to the north road. 

"Can you feel that?" Bethany asks, just to be sure. There's no way they can't: the feeling is foul, overbearing. _ Darkspawn. _

"Head back," Alistair tells the Drydens. "Gerod and Lucien will go with you."

The Orlesians have been following orders too long to question him. The few remaining Wardens move as one, following not so much the pall of smoke as the oily black feel of the darkspawn. 

A family shelters on the roof of a farmhouse next to a blackened barn. They're sparsely armed: an axe, a pitchfork, a bow with arrows long spent. 

The darkspawn mill around beneath them. They're leaderless, no more than a half-dozen genlocks with rusty weapons, but the farm folk are plainly exhausted and they seem content to wait them out. 

Until the Wardens arrive. A steel bolt hits one in the shoulder, spinning it around before Bethany slams it into the ground. Alistair rushes into the fray with a shout, and Bones swaps his crossbow for an axe to follow him. Steel cleaves through blighted flesh, fire and ice fall with surgical precision until Alistair's sword strike shatters the last monster into frozen pieces. 

They help the family, blank-faced with shock, down from the roof. 

"Maker bless you," says the man, clasping Alistair's hands. "We shut some of them in the barn and set fire to it, but there were more in the woods."

"It's all ruined, Da." Inside the house the furniture is broken to sticks, the floor a mess of broken crockery and smashed jars. 

"I wouldn't eat any of that," says Alistair as one of the teenaged children stoops to gather some scattered fruit. "We can give you rations enough to get you to the nearest Chantry." 

"We don't need charity," the man says stiffly. 

"Yes you do." She's never seen this side of Alistair before: blunt, authoritative. "Half the country needs charity after the Blight. Take it where you can find it. You have a home, and a family, and with luck you can regrow your crops. When you're back on your feet you can repay what's been given to you, if it's important to you, but your stiff neck won't keep your family alive."

Bethany's eye has fallen on a small boy hiding behind his mother's skirt. Perhaps eight years old and he's pale: unnaturally so. There's a tinge of blue around his lips. 

"Alistair," she says softly, touching his sleeve. The fight drains out of him when he sees the boy. 

"I'm sorry," he says to the woman, and tears well in her eyes. 

"Enough of that," her husband says gruffly. "I told you, he's caught a chill is all. He'll be fine."

"We'll be going," Alistair says, placing a wrapped package of food in the mother's hands. "We can have a look around and make sure there's no stragglers about."

She catches them near the road, pushing the child in front of her. "Please, sers. Take him with you."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Alistair says, his discomfort plain. "We don't take children into the Wardens."

"He won't be a child forever," she pleads. 

But he will. A sick, blight-touched child, and before long a dead child, and Bethany's soul withers with the knowledge. 

* * *

They catch up with the Dryden crew in a day, and it's a sombre journey back to Soldiers Peak. They arrive mid-morning on a pale, sun-washed day. 

"You've got company," Mickael says by way of greeting. 

"Who?" 

"Wardens." Apparently satisfied with this communication, he carries on at his forge. 

The visitors are found in the second floor common room. 

"We sent a bird," says the dwarf, a girl with pigtails and grim facial tattoos, contrasting with her cheerful demeanour. "But you were gone before it got here."

Her companion has a tattooed face as well. "Andaran atish’an," Bethany greets her haltingly, and she compresses her lips to a thin line. 

"Ma nuvenin, shemlen."

"She likes you," whispers the dwarf with a nudge. "Hello, Alistair."

"Good to see you, Sigrun," he says with genuine warmth. "And, um, Velanna. To what do we owe the pleasure?" 

"To the Commander," Sigrun says with a grin. "She's checking up on you."

"Oh?" 

"Wondered why you were holed up here instead of coming to the Keep, but I see you've been busy enough. And she's curious about the new recruit." Her lively, dark eyes flicker to Bethany. 

"Bethany Hawke," he offers by way of introduction, "although I believe I sent Lyna all the relevant information."

"No need to be prickly," Sigrun says. "Mages are in short supply, as you know. Besides, we're mostly here for the gossip about Anders." 

Bethany clears her throat. "I'm afraid I haven't seen him in a while." 

"It's been a bit longer for us. And the way he left…well, it was colourful. And we never did find out what happened to Justice."

"Oh." She retreats a step. "That might take some time to explain."

Alistair takes pity on her. "It can wait. Why don't the two of you join me in the Warden-Commander's office, and we'll let Bethany get settled in."

"It's very damp here," Velanna says as they walk away. 

"Trust me, it's more pleasant than it used to be."

The elf only sniffs. She's not much like Merrill, Bethany thinks, more like her hostile clan mates; it makes her wonder about the Hero of Ferelden. 

She doesn't make it to her quarters before she's accosted. "Miss Hawke." It's Levi Dryden's sister-in-law, a stern-faced woman with iron-grey hair and eyes of flint. Bethany hasn't yet been able to figure out which Dryden brother she's actually married to. "First of the month. It's laundry day."

"Already?" She looks down at her travel-stained clothing. "It's fine. I'll do it myself later."

"No point hauling all that water from the well twice. Go take a bath and we'll gather your things in with the rest."

She's not accustomed to being waited on; perhaps it's for the best that she's not living in her family's noble estate. "Let me help, at least."

"No need, Miss Hawke."

"Please, it's no trouble."

Mrs Dryden jerks her head in the direction of the men's quarters. "When _they_ help, you can help." Her expression softens. "You Grey Wardens get your hands dirty in other ways. We Drydens know, and we're grateful."

There's no way to argue that graciously; Bethany concedes. "I'll need to fetch the tub and draw a bath -" 

"Done," she says. "Might need some heating but I figure you're up to the task."

"Gosh. Thank you."

"No need," she says again. "The Drydens remember."

Bethany can't help but feel like an imposter as she sinks into the copper tub. Yes, the Wardens stopped the Blight and saved Ferelden, but she wasn’t a Warden then. She couldn't even save her brother. 

Oh. _ First of the month. _The beginning of Justinian, which means Bloomingtide has come and gone, and with it…

Numb grief creeps over her, and for once it's better to be alone. 

"Looking for the Princess?" Gerod asks. 

"No," Alistair lies reflexively. 

"She went up." He nods to the stairs. 

"That's fine. Not looking." Alistair fidgets. "I'll just…I'm going that way anyway."

"As you wish, _ beau prince. _"

"You know, speaking Orlesian doesn't fool anyone _ when the word is the same. _"

Gerod shrugs, winks.

The top floor is empty. Outside on the bridge he's surprised to find the overhanging branches rimed with ice, a trail of hoarfrost running along the parapet towards Bethany. 

She sits on the edge. Ice dancing at her fingertips, feet hanging in the air. His heart sinks, because he knows that look. That round-shouldered, ground-gazing look. 

It's the look Lyna had on the edge of camp after killing the ghoul that knew her name. It's the look of Alistair himself, aged ten and perched on the monastery roof with his heart full of resentment. 

It's pain. 

"There you are," he says with forced cheer. She's dressed simply, he sees, a plain tunic and breeches in place of her Warden robes or the clothes she brought from Kirkwall. "I was wondering if you wanted to catch up with our guests? They seem very keen to dissect you."

She turns: a quick glimpse of wan cheeks and red-rimmed eyes before she looks back down at the cobblestones. 

Gingerly, he crouches beside her. "Is it the boy down at the farm? We didn't get much chance to talk about it."

"No," she says hoarsely. "Yes...that's part of it, I suppose." She raises her face to the sky, and all at once he's jealous of the sun. "It was my birthday last week. Twenty-one. I forgot."

For an idiotic moment he's relieved. "That doesn't matter!" he exclaims. "It's not too late for a party."

She draws further in on herself. "You don't understand," she whispers. "I _ forgot." _

_ Oh. _

Carefully, very carefully, he settles in next to her. "I don't know if you've noticed this. It takes a keen sort of insight to work it out. But I am, in fact, a bit of an idiot."

"You're not," she says with a sniff. 

"Carver was at Ostagar, wasn't he?" 

"Yes."

"So he's practically one of us. We'd be out of our minds to let his birthday pass without a celebration, wouldn't we? Especially his twenty-first birthday. A true Ferelden hero."

"Don't mock -" 

"I'm _ not." _ He reaches: stops short of her chin, but she turns anyway. "I would never. Ostagar isn't a joking matter, even if it weren't your brother. He _ was _a hero."

She cracks a reluctant smile. "He was. Marian too. And I cowered at home."

"Cowered? I think not. I don't think you have it in you to cower."

"You'd be surprised. I've had a lot of practice."

"Hiding and cowering aren't the same thing. If you'd gone to war the Templars would have snaffled you up and taken you to the Tower, and then…" He shudders. "You hid when you needed to, and we're all better off for it."

"I just wish…"

"You could have saved him? I know. Wrong place, wrong time…I could have saved people too, if I could see the future."

"You did. You saved all of Ferelden."

"I helped," he says with a shrug. "Carver helped, Marian helped, and now you help. It's the best we can do."

"Is that all?" Her smile is tremulous, but real. 

"It's everything." 

Bethany's cold fingers curl around his own, and it is. It's everything. 

Somehow word has spread, and by dinnertime there's a leg of venison, roasted roots and spring greens. All this, and the laundry folded neatly by her door.

Is there anything more terrifyingly efficient, she wonders, than a Dryden? 

There's a roar when she enters the common room, a chorus of _ happy birthday! _ and _ to the princess! _

"Sorry," says a sheepish Alistair, pressing a pewter tankard into her hand. "I tried to keep things a bit more low-key, but we haven't had cause for celebration in a while."

"Princess?" 

"Don't ask." He raises his drink. "Happy twenty-first birthday, Bethany Hawke!" In the cheer that follows he says more quietly, "and Carver Hawke."

Unlooked-for tears prick her eyes, and she takes a sip to cover her embarrassment. It tastes of sunlight and sweetness, of Marian's chortling laughter and Carver's indignation, of Mother's indulgent smile and Father's pride, even as he thinned and sickened. It tastes of home. 

"They called it pear cider," says Alistair, watching her closely, "but I'm told it's the same thing."

"It is," she assures him, unsure whether she's about to burst into sobbing or laughter. "Thank you."

Blessedly the grief holds itself at bay, and she's able to get through - no, _ enjoy _ \- the feast. It's a stark contrast to last year. Marian quietly exhorting her to escape to the Hanged Man; Mother staring at the wall, choking on her tears. _ Happy birthday, Bethany and Carver. _

The Drydens melt away when dinner is finished, and Bannorn Ned vanishes not long after, followed by Cooper with a green complexion. Velanna, surprisingly, stays. Perhaps just in solidarity with Sigrun, who seems to be enjoying herself immensely. 

"Verity!" she cries, slamming her tankard on the table. 

"Verity?" Bethany echoes. 

"Oh, sorry," says the dwarf. "You call it Truth or Drink up here."

"Absolutely not!" protests Alistair. "We are _ Grey Wardens, _we are not playing Truth or Drink."

"Vérité ou Boisson!" Gerod bellows, and Lucien departs the table with a sound of disgust. He sprawls on a bench by the fire to whittle. They're left with Gerod, Swift, Bones, Alistair, the two Amaranthine Wardens, and Bethany herself. 

"This is a terrible idea," groans Alistair, but to Bethany it sounds much safer than most of Isabela's drinking games. Of course with Isabela it never takes long for the conversation to take a bawdy turn, and things in the Wardens aren't so different. 

"Birthday girl," chirps Sigrun, pointing an unsteady finger. "First time!" 

"Uh…first time what?" she asks, aware her cheeks are reddening. 

Sigrun rolls her eyes. 

"You don't have to answer," says Alistair. 

"But you have to finish your drink if you don't."

"Oh." She looks at the tabletop, at her near-full tankard, anywhere but the circle of eyes upon her. "It's just that I don't…I haven't really…"

"Next," Alistair says, but Sigrun holds up a hand. 

"Fine," she relents, "first kiss."

Bethany wishes for a natural disaster, or a sudden darkspawn invasion. "Um."

"Drink, Princess." Gerod gives her a friendly thump on the back. "My turn, no?" 

"Same question," says Alistair, quickly moving the focus away from Bethany. 

"The first, or…?"

"Either will do."

He shrugs. "It is the same." He plants his feet on the table, resting his tankard on his belly. "The son of my father's gamekeeper. We were eighteen then, but I loved him for years before that - grumpy bastard, but fair and handsome and the best archer I've ever seen. I came across him bathing in the river and spied from a tree, until he caught me looking." The rest he conveys with eyebrows alone. 

"What happened to him?" asks a wide-eyed Sigrun. 

"He joined the Grey Wardens."

"Oh! Do you ever see each other?" 

"Every day," Gerod says with a wink. 

_ "Tais-toi, imbécile," _Lucien grumbles from across the room. 

He smiles, undeterred. "You see? Grumpy bastard."

Alistair looks between the two of them, perplexed. "Does that mean…have you only ever been with _ one _person?" 

Gerod lifts an aristocratic brow. "I see," he says. "You think because I am a man who loves men, I must be promiscuous? Typical small-minded doglord."

"That's not it at all," he protests. "I was just surprised because, you're, you know…"

"I am _ what?" _

His voice drops to a near whisper. _ "Orlesian." _

"Ah," says Gerod, inspecting his nails. "A fair point. But yes, for me there is only one."

Lucien stands abruptly, draining his mead and pulling a face. "Too sugary," he says. "Good night."

Gerod watches him depart before pushing his chair back. "Bed time for me too, I think." He offers them a bow and a grin. "Good night, comrades."

"Am I next?" asks Bones. "I'll save you the trouble." He upends his tankard, belches, and hops down from his chair in search of a refill. 

"I'm not participating," Velanna says stiffly. 

"Well if this isn't the most boring round o' Truth I ever seen." Sharp fixes his eyes, razor-like as his name, on Alistair. "Go on, Your Grace, tell us about your first tup."

For a fraction of a second Bethany sees him freeze, then he clears his throat. "I'll drink," he says, but his tankard is empty. 

"Looks like it's Truth for you, Alistair," says Sigrun. 

He stands up, his chair screeching. "I'll fill it up."

"The rule is -" 

"Bugger the rule," he snaps. 

Sharp crows. "Not another virgin! Thought it was the Wardens I was joining, not the Chantry."

Alistair shakes his head. "You don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about."

"Tell us, then."

"No." There's more ice in his tone than Bethany could hope to conjure. "Not everything needs to be _ told." _He takes in a shuddering breath. "I might turn in myself, actually."

"Are you alright?" asks Bethany, and he gives her a tight-lipped smile. 

"I'm fine. Enjoy your party, you've earned it."

_ So have you, _she wants to say. 

"I'd give it a bit if I were you," says Bones. "In case the Orlesians were actually going _ to bed." _

He curses under his breath. "Anyway, I'm off."

The room is somehow dimmed with his departure. Bones and Swift drift away - they, Bannorn Ned and Cooper share a different room. She's left with Velanna, who drifts around the room looking vaguely scornful, and Sigrun. 

"I didn't mean to make things difficult," the dwarf says after a while. "It's normally more fun than that."

"Please don't worry about it," Bethany says. "You weren't to know it would be awkward."

"I thought you and Alistair…"

"Me? Him? No!" She blushes all over again. "Did you think that would be _ less _ awkward?" 

"Sorry," says Sigrun. "But you really aren't…?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" 

"Well he's…and you're…why not? You like each other."

"We don't! At least I - he _ doesn't." _She can tell from the dwarf's face that she's digging the hole deeper. "It wouldn't be appropriate, anyway. It's hardly the time or place for that sort of thing."

Sigrun rolls her eyes. "The place looks pretty good to me. Better than the Deep Roads! And what's wrong with the time?" 

"So much has changed," Bethany says, worrying at the hem of her tunic. "I hardly know who I am any more, and our lives…there's too much violence, and uncertainty."

When she looks up, Sigrun is staring at her with a bemused sort of empathy. "I think we're close to the same age, and I spent most of my time underground. And dead. So I don't know if my advice is the best. But I know uncertainty, and I know violence. When you don't know how long you've got, the right time is always now." She gives Bethany's hand a little squeeze before sliding down from her chair. "If you wait for peace in this life, you'll wait forever." 

Bethany watches her weave a little as she makes her way to Velanna; they give her a wave and a haughty nod in turn before leaving. 

It's not until the room is empty that Bethany thinks to ask. "Dead?" 

The door is ajar, his room empty, but the last thing Alistair wants to do is close his eyes. He sits, stands, paces, sits again, until the candle begins to gutter. 

The first time and the last time. He's willed himself not to think of it, but it doesn't fade. When the Blight ended there were plenty of women, low and high born, who were willing to share their bed with the bastard prince. Some might even have truly wanted _ him _ and not his sudden fame; he pushed them all away, feeling sick and soiled, cloying magic sticking to his skin and filling his nostrils at the mere thought of lying with a woman. 

_ I did it for her. It was the right thing. _As ever, logic doesn't dispel the guilt. 

Nausea gives way to a rumbling stomach; the hunger never disappears for long. He makes his way to the kitchen and cuts a thick slice of brown bread, garnishes it with cheese and relish and devours it in three bites. 

"Don't choke."

Ironically, Bethany's quiet voice startles him into a coughing fit. 

"I said _ don't," _she reprimands gently, and gives him a firm thump between the shoulder blades. She's wearing a blanket as a shawl, and beneath that a nightdress; he tries, and fails, not to think about what lies under that. The result is a fresh round of coughing. 

Bethany tuts. "If I tell you to choke, will you stop?" She goes to the rainwater barrel and ladles some into a cup, which he accepts gratefully. 

"Are you here scrounging for food too?" he asks, wiping tears from his eyes. 

"Water," she explains as she fills a ewer. "I might have overdone it a bit."

"I hope you had a nice party. Sorry for leaving the way I did."

"It's fine." She puts the full ewer on the bench and turns to face him. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

_ No, _ he thinks. _ Never. _ But he looks in her kind brown eyes and suddenly it all spills out: the truth about Wardens and archdemons, Lyna bringing him Morrigan's offer and _ how _ could he refuse, how could he not save her? He did what he had to and now somewhere out in the world is his child, his _ bastard. _

He searches her face for what she must be feeling: condemnation, revulsion, disappointment? She tugs the blanket more tightly around her. 

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "That shouldn't have happened to you."

"I don't think of it as something that happened," he says, confused. "It was something I did. _ We _did."

Bethany shakes her head. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

It's a small shift: the iron band around his chest loosens a fraction, and it becomes that little bit easier to breathe. "What about you?" he asks croakily. "Nobody special?" 

She shakes her head. "It's hard to meet people when most of the world wants you locked up. Even harder to trust." Her smile is rueful. "I had crushes, every now and then. The more unattainable the better."

It's a sad picture. "Why unattainable?" 

"Oh." The shawl has slipped, and somehow Alistair can think of nothing but kissing her bare shoulder. "It's easier that way. If you set your sights on a prince, there's no fear of disappointment. Because he's unattainable, you see?" 

"I see. Hold on -" He frowns, because he must have misunderstood. She can't be suggesting…_ Of course not, you idiot, _but he can't think of a better explanation and his tongue gets ahead of him. "I'm not a prince, you know. I never was, it's not like -" 

"Oh, Alistair." Her eyes are round with horror. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…I was talking about the Prince of Starkhaven. He's a friend of my sister's. I wasn't implying…" She trails off, hiding her face with her hand. 

"Well, this is -" Embarrassment ties his words in knots, "awkful."

Bethany peeps between her fingers. "Awkful?" 

"Awful. Awkward. All those things."

Her giggle breaks the tension. "I'm an idiot."

"I am!" 

"No! And I think you're very attainable." 

It's his turn to burst into laughter. "I don't know whether to be pleased or offended."

"Oh, _ Maker." _They're both helpless now, unable to look at each other without breaking into fresh hysterics. "I told you I'm an idiot."

"You're in good company," he tells her. 

"Yes," she answers quietly. "Yes, I think I am." She smiles and picks up her ewer. "Good night, Alistair." 

"Good night," he says, and she turns to leave. 

It's hard to say who's more surprised when he grasps her wrist. He's not sure he meant to, but now he's holding it and she's looking at him with a question in her eyes. 

There doesn't seem much to be done about it all, except to kiss her. 

"Can -" 

"Yes."

It's ungainly: noses bump, her teeth knock his lip, he can't think what to do with his free hand. Bethany seems to be pulling away, and he lets her go just as her shawl falls to the floor. 

He's readying a joke to mask the sting of rejection, but Bethany just puts the ewer down on the table with a thump. 

"Sorry," she says. "Where were we?" Then her hands are on his chest and her lips find his again, soft and sweet and responsive, and his arms wrap around her and _oh, _this is just how a kiss should be. 

He's a bit lost once it's over. "Well, goodnight then." He moves to run his hand through his hair and slams his elbow into the lintel. "_Shit_. I mean thank you. I mean, that was…"

Bethany laughs and brushes her lips on the corner of his mouth, swift as a bird. "Nice?" she says, her eyes shining. "I thought so too." She bends to retrieve her shawl, and it occurs to him he missed the chance to kiss her on the shoulder. 

But perhaps. 

_ Perhaps. _

There'll be another . 


	4. burnt sugar // spider-silk // driftwood

Bethany wakes in her little room with a lightness in her chest. It takes a moment to place, and when she does she hugs the blankets to her chin, biting her lip to hide her smile. 

If she shuts her eyes, she can feel his mouth on hers. The thought sends a pang of longing through her, sharp and bright and hungry - his lips, his warmth, his sparkling eyes - she can't remember ever wanting something so fiercely, let alone some_ one. _

_ You don't have to hide any more, _ she reminds herself. _ You have nothing to lose. _Nothing, except…and with that thought she erupts into giggles, biting her knuckles in delight. 

Sore heads abound at the breakfast table; Alistair's not there yet, and it occurs to her that she doesn't know how to act around him. Are the two of them a secret? Are the two of them… anything at all? Doubt nibbles at the edges of her happiness. 

And here he is, hearty and loose-limbed, sliding onto the bench beside her with his plate piled high. 

"Morning," he says breezily. "Sleep well?" 

"Very well, thank you." She's not sure what to do with her face, so she takes a too-large sip of scalding tea. "Shit. Buggering shit."

"Unfailingly polite, as always."

Bethany lets out a nervous, hiccuping laugh. "I went to the Kirkwall Finishing School for Young Pirates, don't you know?" 

"Ah. Curtsey like a lady, swear like a sailor."

"You know the motto!" She flinches as he raises a thumb to her lip. 

"Stray crumb. See?" He waggles it at her before popping it in his mouth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to manhandle you."

Oh, how she wishes he would. 

"I don't know why I jumped like that," she says by way of apology. She does, though: it's because every nerve in her body is humming with energy. Not magic, but something like, reaching for him like tiny strands of spider-silk. "I should…" She gathers her dishes with a clatter. "Enjoy your breakfast."

His touch lingers like a brand; she touches the tip of her tongue to her lower lip and now she's thinking of _ lips, _ and _ tongues, _ and _ manhandling, _and Maker if she doesn't take care she'll catch fire right here. 

Instead she flees. 

Was he being too much…himself? Has he misread the situation yet again - she did say, didn't she, _ nice? _ But what is _ nice, _really, but a lukewarm sentiment, a platitude? 

She does have such good manners, after all. 

Alistair resolves to give her space. There's plenty to keep him occupied with the visiting Wardens, comparing newer maps of the Deep Roads with those held at the Peak, discussing darkspawn sightings and looking for patterns in their movements. Luckily, nothing that points to a driving intelligence. 

"We need a base in the south of the country. And units on the road. Scouting for darkspawn, recruiting…capitalising on the goodwill remaining from the Blight." Sigrun places a hand on the map: two fingertips side-by-side on Soldiers Peak and Amaranthine, her palm covering the rest of Ferelden. "Commander Mahariel wants us covering a wider area."

"To cover a wider area we need more Wardens," he points out reasonably. "And roaming patrols need to be fed."

"The Grey Wardens may demand aid," says Velanna. 

"During a post-Blight famine? That sounds like an excellent way to use up our stores of goodwill as fast as possible."

"There's the compound in Denerim," Sigrun continues. 

"It's little more than a warehouse."

"And the records mention an archive tower."

"It's a ruin. In a swamp."

"Recruits, then. We could use more mages."

"The Circle will only allow us one. And I'm not sure they'd even grant us that, given we have two apostates already. And our track record with _ misplacing _ mages -" 

"Fine, fine." Sigrun scrunches up her nose. "Perhaps if we had a sympathetic ruler…"

"Anora is as sympathetic as she's likely to be towards the order that killed her father."

"A _ different _ruler." She cocks an eyebrow at him. 

"That kind of talk could get us exiled again, if not killed." His stomach twists. "And even a sympathetic ruler doesn't control the Chantry."

"The Teyrnir of Gwaren sits empty," she speculates. "If she could be persuaded to grant it to you -" 

"No," he snaps. "She gave us Amaranthine already. She's not going to be persuaded to give us Loghain's seat after Lyna _ cut off his head. _ If anything _ I'll _ end up without a head, or a teyrnir. And you'll have no more land and one less Warden."

"Oh." She bites her lip. "I'm sorry. Ideas get away from me sometimes."

"Ideas are fine," he says, forcing a smile, "if they're not the kind that get me branded a pretender to the throne."

"I'll never get used to these surfacer politics. In Orzammar you'd be dead already."

"What a comforting thought."

She shrugs. "It's not so bad, really. The funeral is nice."

"I somehow doubt I'd get to enjoy mine." Alistair scrubs a hand through his hair. "I know we've spent more time than necessary here. The new recruit -" 

"She needed your special attention." The dwarf's brown eyes twinkle. 

"Time to adjust," he clarifies. "If we were ordered elsewhere, we'd have gone."

"Well, those might come soon if the Legion can't contain the swarm heading south." Serious again, she points at an area on the coast just east of Gwaren, on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. "That's where we expect them to surface; disorganised, but the numbers are worrying." 

"Can we shore up the Legion's troops before it comes to that?" 

"They haven't asked us to, and they can get prickly about that sort of thing."

"So it's under control?" 

"We'll see," she says softly, staring down at the map. Her fingers scratch idly at her cheek, where the Legion of the Dead tattoos stand out in stark contrast to her pale skin. "I'd like to help, if I can. Imagine if we could work together, drive them back to where they were at the start of the age, reclaim Bownammar…if the surface takes the darkspawn threat seriously, what couldn't we achieve?" 

Velanna sniffs. "The shemlen have already begun to forget."

"And most of the Dalish clans have left the country," Alistair counters. "We need to rebuild before we can face any serious threat again. The Wardens, and Ferelden." He drums his fingers on the map. "Let's hope we have time."

He's giving her space. But when the meeting resolves, his feet take him wandering around the fortress until he hears a feminine laugh, and the _ thwack _ of weapons in the practice yard. 

_ It can't hurt to watch. _

Gerod and Bethany spar with weighted cane bundles; there's no magic involved as far as he can see, and she seems to be holding her own. He's holding back, of course. Warden Caron is a seasoned warrior with considerably more bulk than his mage counterpart. In the Templars they might call it coddling, but the Wardens understand that it's difficult for a newcomer to learn new combat skills if they're beaten black and blue. 

She moves with easy grace. In another life she might have been a society debutante, noble suitors falling over themselves to dance with her. In _ this _ life, even, if not for magic. She might never have needed to raise a hand in defence, even mock defence like she does now. 

Watching from the shadows, he can't help but think it would have been a waste. 

Gerod swings and she ducks, the effort starting to show in the sheen on her brow. "Are you sure I can't use just a little magic?" She's laughing, but breathless. 

"And when you find yourself in a tight space?" He strikes a glancing blow on her shoulder. "No mana, no backup, surrounded by darkspawn?" 

"Why, then," she huffs, landing a strike on his thigh, "I'll die."

Gerod affects a limp. "With that attitude, Princess, you might."

"Why do you call me that?" She presses her advantage, only to have her legs swept from under her; there's little elegance in her landing, but she takes the defeat with good grace. 

Gerod offers her a hand. "You haven't figured it out yet?" He nods to Alistair, who feels his face all but glow. 

"Good job," he stammers. "Very good - nice - hitting. Both of you."

"Thank you," Bethany says with a grimace as she dusts off her breeches. "That's very constructive."

Gerod claps her on the arm. "You're leaving your left open. Better watch that."

"I know," she says. "My sister usually…" When she shakes her head, dark curls tumble around her shoulders. "I'll work on it."

Alistair trails after her to the armoury. _ Space, _he reminds himself, but if he keeps a respectable distance surely there's no harm? "I'm sorry about your sister. I could watch your left, if that helps?"

"I should probably get better." She puts her reeds back on the weapon stand. "But it's very sweet of you to offer." Her back is to him, and it takes him a moment to realise she's unlacing her gambeson. 

"Oh," he says, stepping away. "I'm sorry, I should let you dress."

"I'm not getting naked in the middle of the armoury, Alistair." Smiling over her shoulder, she catches a glimpse of his face. "Did I say something wrong?" 

"You're worried about saying the wrong thing around me? I've got my foot in my mouth so often it's a miracle I can walk."

"You're less awkward than you think, you know." The gambeson comes off and she's wearing just breeches and a shirt, damply clinging to her shoulder blades. When she turns and leans against the wall his eyes snap up guiltily and _ oh no, _ now he's lost in her brown eyes and the curve of her lips, and _ wait, _what did she just say? 

"Kiss me?" 

"Really?" 

Her brows knit in confusion. "I know. I'm horribly sweaty. Never mind, I'll go and bathe -" 

_ Of all the stupid - _"That's not what I meant," he says in a rush. "I just thought perhaps you'd, I don't know, changed your mind?" 

Bethany's eyes go soft. "You silly thing," she says, and reaches to pull him down. Her lips are as soft as he remembers and he's giddy with her closeness, her _ realness. _ She's not just sweet cider and honeysuckle-scented soap; she's salt, and metal, and soft leather and damp linen and Bethany, _ Bethany, _he wants to devour her whole. 

With that thought he pulls back - to her small gasp of dismay - and nuzzles into the crook of her neck, baring her shoulder for the path of his lips. When his tongue flicks against her skin she _ shivers_, and he wonders if it's possible to die of happiness. 

"I've been wanting to do that."

"For how long?" she asks huskily. 

"Only since last night," he confesses, and kisses her shoulder again. "But it feels like longer."

They find each other's lips again, and her arms wrap around his neck, and it's funny how this has already become the most natural thing in the world. 

It's the morning of the Amaranthine Wardens' departure, and it finds Alistair and Bethany trading more stolen kisses in the shadow of a fir tree. She lured him out here and pressed him against the trunk; it seems she's actually quite brazen, given the right circumstances. 

"Do you hear that?" After a bit she turns her head, and he plants a series of opportunistic pecks along her jawline. "Stop," she giggles, squirming, "something's happening."

It's true: there are distant shouts, running feet. A glance in the direction of the keep shows smoke billowing from the top of the tower. 

"The rookery." She's already running, snatching up her abandoned staff. A window shatters, flame licking through where the pane once was. 

"Nita!" Martha Dryden, her perpetually stern expression lost to terror. "My niece, miss, they'll never reach her in time -" 

Bethany doesn't have time to ask questions. She launches Winter's Breath at the source of the flame in a continuous stream. There's little finesse to it, but better chilled than burned: she doesn't stop until the loss of mana makes her head spin, and Alistair tugs at her elbow. 

"I think it's out, Beth."

She sways a little. "Are you sure?" 

"There's no smoke."

Shouts from above: Levi and Mickael, Cooper and Bones have reached the bridge and are negotiating the icy path to the rookery. 

"We should get up there."

"Maker bless you, Miss Bethany," she hears Martha call after her. 

_ Don't bless me yet. _

It stinks in the rookery: damp and soot and charred feathers. Her eyes take some time to adjust. 

"Over here!" shouts Bones, and she makes out the dim figures of the Dryden men kneeling, and the huddled figure of a girl, and she can breathe again. 

"Nita?" she asks, letting her eyes adjust to the dim. "Are you alright? Is she alright?" 

The girl's hand is clutched to her chest. Her face, once visible, paints a picture no words could. Dark trails of soot run from her nose, and her eyes carry the haunted certainty that nothing will be the same ever, ever again. 

"I didn't mean to," she croaks. "I didn't. The birds -" She breaks off in a fit of hacking coughs. "I wouldn't see them hurt for nothing." Ash-stained tears run down her cheeks. 

"I know, Nita. I know. May I see your hand?" Bethany crouches in front of her. The skin is reddened partway up the wrist, but no sign of serious burns. It's often the way. She places cooling hands over the burns. 

The girl begins to sob. "I don't want to go. Please. I can't."

"Shh," she says. "We'll work it out."

Her heart breaks, just a little. 

Alistair keeps a respectful distance from the small huddle of Drydens and Bethany: there's something going on there that doesn't concern him yet, something to do with family, and possibly womanhood, and most definitely magic. 

"How many did we lose?" Coop asks, staring at the pitiful huddles of feathers in their cages. 

"Nothing that can't be replaced."

"Does she see it the same?" He nods at the broken girl. 

"Of course not, Coop. Let's just please pretend we're talking about resources and not her best bloody friends that she's just incinerated."

And now he's put it like that, it hurts. 

"What are we going to do about -" 

"I don't fucking know, Cooper." His mind is abuzz. The Circle _ (they would have killed them all), _ the Templars _ (the wrong reasons, most of them), _ the Drydens _ (it would be a betrayal), _ the Wardens _ (she's a child, for the Maker's sake). _

Bethany. 

Her chin is up, her spine straight, yet somehow she emerges from the rookery looking smaller. 

"I don't know what to say to her, Alistair."

He folds her into his arms, resting his chin atop her bowed head. 

Martha leads Nita away, wrapped in a blanket and dragging her feet like a ghoul. There's a plea in the older woman's hard eyes. The girl's uncles follow; at the bridge they halt, shuffling their feet. 

Levi clears his throat. "She didn't mean it to happen. It came out of nowhere, she said. No more than knocking over a lamp but it spread fast." He looks between Alistair and Bethany. "Is she a danger? I know we're supposed to call for the templars. I know it's what we _ should _ do, but -" He shrugs miserably. "She's a kid. My blood."

"I know."

"We won't fight you if you want to play things by the book. But if there's another way…" He glances apologetically at Bethany, then down at his boots. 

"Is she a danger?" Alistair asks her. _ This shouldn't be up for debate, we can't harbour an apostate - _but Bethany was an apostate and she turned out alright, didn't she?

She's looking up at him wonderingly. "She shouldn't be. My father taught me. I can guide her through it, if that's an option. The real danger won't come from her."

"Demons?" he says quietly, and she shakes her head. 

"I wasn't thinking of demons. They're a possibility, I suppose, but they can be resisted. The Chantry can't."

Levi catches her last words. "If they didn't need to know…" He twists his hands hopefully. 

"There's someone whose wishes are more important than ours," Bethany tells them. 

"The Warden-Commander," suggests Coop, and she shakes her head.

"The mage."

After she speaks to Nita she seeks out Alistair: partly to report, but mostly because she wants to find comfort in the circle of his arms. The normally quiet girl was all but mute, but she made one thing clear. 

"She doesn't want to go to the Circle," she tells him, "if she doesn't have to."

His jaw clenches. "Coop wasn't wrong. We can't shelter her without Lyna's permission. She's too young to join even if she wants to." His arms tighten around her waist. "If she were to leave we wouldn't stop her."

"I don't want that to happen." Bethany had her father for guidance, her family for protection; she can't bear to see Nita set loose on the world to be tossed about like driftwood in a storm. "Can we help her? We have to try."

The Chantry won't tolerate an apostate, but so far the only people who know about her are Drydens and Grey Wardens. Family. 

"I'll try, Beth," and his sincerity breaks her; she melts into him, hands fisted in his shirt as she seeks his lips for a long, hungry kiss, and how can anything go wrong in the world when such perfection exists? 

"Did you ever think about handing yourself in?" he asks, stroking her hair. "It's a stupid question, probably…"

"Not at all stupid. And I did, almost constantly." She bites her lip at the memory. "It would have been a relief in a lot of ways. Knowing the worst had happened. But my family took so many risks to keep me out of there. Made so many sacrifices...it would have been a betrayal."

"So you think it might not have been so bad?" 

There's something in his tone that makes her look up sharply. "There was plenty Father hated. No freedom to move, no freedom to love. Being watched all the time. Of course that was Kirkwall, but it's every Circle from what I know. Why do you ask like that?" 

"I was in Kinloch during the Blight." His fingers dig into her waist. "It seems like it would be a grim place at the best of times, but when it fell…"

"You don't have to tell me."

He leans down and kisses the space between her eyebrows. "Let's just say when a fire breaks out, it's best not to be trapped in a cage."

Her hand rests on his cheek. "She'd do poorly, I think. She's fond of solitude, and there's precious little of that to be found in a Circle."

There's little fanfare when Sigrun and Velanna take their leave. A pall hangs over Soldier's Peak. The Dryden men pack their wagon high with goods: weapons and armour for trade, fabrics and produce from the farm (it can't really be called a garden, nowadays). Velanna looks disdainfully at the oxen. 

"I would rather walk," she declares. "What are you doing about the child?" 

"Until we hear from the Commander, damage control." Alistair nods to Sigrun, perched atop the wagon with his letter in her pocket. 

"Well don't send her to me. I'm busy." She turns on her heel and starts down the path on her own. 

"She's got a heart of gold once you get to know her," Sigrun says. 

"If you survive that long." He brushes it off with a smile. "It's fine. I'm used to it, honestly."

Then they're gone, along with a Dryden escorts, and everyone remaining holds their breath waiting on the word of the Warden-Commander. 

Bethany and Alistair have given up any pretence of secrecy. "They knew before we did," he says with a wry grin. "What's the point?" 

Nevertheless, there's a boundary they haven't crossed. Not that she hasn't thought about it, _ Maker _ it seems like she thinks of nothing else when her time isn't taken up with combat training, or guiding Nita Dryden through her new reality. It's an exhausting task; the usually recalcitrant girl has drawn so far into her shell it seems all but impossible to bring her out.

Worst is the day Bethany leads her back up to the rookery. It's been tidied up, and the surviving birds caw softly at her return. 

"Can we…" she whispers. "Do they have to be in cages?" 

"No. Of course not." Bethany goes around opening doors, and soon the girl joins her. The ravens circle up to the domed roof, and down, perching near Nita with bright, hopeful eyes. 

"I only have corn," she apologises. The birds shuffle from foot to foot, and when they gather around the spilled grain and peck kernels from her hands, it's as close to a smile as Bethany's seen from her in many days. 

That night she wakes: she's not sure why, but sleep is not forthcoming. The ewer beside her bed isn't empty, but she's wide awake. Perhaps a walk to the kitchens will dispel this restless energy? 

On the other side of the door she finds Alistair. 

"I…" he says. "Uh."

"How long have you been there?" 

"Can I lie?" 

"If you like."

"No time at all. Just got here."

"What a stroke of luck, then." She steps aside. "Come in?" 

"In?" He peers around her as if it might be a trap. "Well I suppose, if you insist."

Alistair paces as much as he can: two steps here, two steps there. "So…your room."

"You've been here before."

"Yes, but I haven't seen what you've done with it." 

Her clothes are packed away in the wardrobe; a bunch of dying violets sit in a bottle on the windowsill. 

Bethany puts down her lamp. "Sit."

"Where?" 

"The bed, silly."

It's not a large bed, and it creaks under his weight. "I didn't mean to bother you."

"I'm not bothered." She stands between his knees, pleased when his hands meet at the small of her back. "Was it something important?" 

"I think…" His throat convulses. "Important. Yes."

"Was it something to do with…" She leans in and brushes her lips against his. "This?" 

His eyes are wide, burnt-sugar irises all but swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils. "I can't quite recall," he says, voice breaking, "but perhaps you could jog my memory?" 

It's all the encouragement she needs; before she quite knows what's happening she's pressed hard against him, uncaring how thin is her nightgown or how little - nothing, in fact - she wears beneath it. His lips are at her throat and her fingertips brush his scalp, and when his broad hands find their way to her thighs she can't tell if she was hauled into his lap, or climbed there. 

"Blessed Andraste." His elbow knocks the lamp and it topples on the side table, its light extinguished. One hand leaves her to grope blindly for the edge of the mattress. When he has his bearings he turns them, carefully rearranging limbs and torsos on the narrow bed. 

"Bethany." Reorienting themselves in the dark, they find each other with lips and hands; hers find the hem of his shirt and brush his stomach, his linger hopefully below her ribs. 

"Alistair," she gasps. His thigh has slipped between her legs and it's close, _ so close _ to what she needs. More. Closer. She doesn't know what she wants and she knows even less how to ask for it. _Isabela, if I'd known this would ever happen I'd have listened better. _

Frustration escapes as a piteous whine against the curve of his neck; his answering laugh is breathless and tinged with panic. 

There's a humming in her veins, an insistent pulse growing below her belly, a near-achethat _demands_ attention. Her hips rise off the hard mattress, and her fingers slip beneath his waistband, _ please, please… _

"Wait" He pushes up on his elbows, breathing heavily. "I can't."

"You can't?" she echoes, confused because there's so little fabric between them, and she can clearly feel that he _ can. _"Alistair?" 

"I'm sorry." He clambers free, swearing as he runs into the corner of the bed. "I have to go." The open door casts a silhouette, his hand raked through unruly hair. "I can explain, Beth, I promise…just not now."

The door clicks shut, and she's left with kiss-bruised lips and a hunger she can hardly begin to name. 


	5. an ink splotch // mint tea // bloody knuckles

Alistair is training with Bannorn Ned. No padding, no armour, no shields; they swing at each other with cane bundles, grim and silent but for the odd grunt when a blow lands. 

Ned has a good twenty-five years on Alistair, and a deal less experience. But today the younger warden is distracted. Careless, reckless, clumsy. 

_ Stupid. _

He overbalances on a downward swing, foot skidding in the sawdust. Ned uses the opening to deliver a smart blow to Alistair's sword hand; his weapon falls from fingers gone suddenly nerveless. 

"Enough?" Ned says. 

"Oh, you've had enough?" He regains his footing. "Very well then, I wouldn't want to tire you out."

Ned, unsmiling, nods over Alistair's shoulder. 

"Good morning."

_ Good...what? _ He spins to find Bethany, solemn and composed with her hands clasped at her waist. 

He doesn't notice Ned leave. He barely notices the sting in his dangling hand, until she approaches and takes it in hers, inspecting the bloodied knuckles with a grimace. 

"What have you done to yourself?"

"To be fair, Ned did that."

"Don't you have gloves for this sort of thing? At the very least wrap your hands." Frowning, she tugs him away from the practice yard. "You could do serious damage with an injury like this, you know. If you damaged your nerves, or tendons…an infection could cripple or kill you, and it's not as if we have a proper healer!" 

"You do a fine impression of one."

"I picked up a few things from Anders. That doesn't give you license to kill yourself."

"Hang on," he protests. "I was sparring with canes, not juggling swords."

She shoots him a sharp look. "Life is fragile, Alistair. I'm tired of being around people who are reckless with it."

"From what you've told me, that's half your family and friends."

They've reached the herb gardens. She drops his arm, scowling as she bends to harvest from the elfroot plants. "Exactly."

There are things he wants to say: they well up inside him and congeal in his throat. 

Bethany rolls the elfroot between her hands, bruising the dark leaves. "Give me your bloody hand." It's immediately soothing; perhaps it's the plant juice, perhaps it's the steady pressure of her hand on his. Then she sniffs and he's shocked - no, _ horrified - _to realise she's crying. 

"Beth?" 

She turns away, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Shut up."

"What can I do?" 

Her voice is muffled. "Keep those leaves in place."

"Bethany, _what_ _can I_ _do?"_

She's silent for a long moment, her shoulders trembling. "I don't know."

"You know I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Oh." Her voice is small, so small. "That's it, then?" 

It takes him a moment to unravel her words, then he seizes her by the shoulders. "No! That's not - " He lets her go, backing away with hands in the air. "That's not what I want. _ Andraste, _I ruined it. I didn't mean to."

There's a little stone bench: he sinks onto it, one hand holding the dressing on the other. 

"Will you sit with me?" 

Bethany straightens her shoulders. He hates it, hates that she puts on this show of courage for him when she's already perfectly courageous. She finally sits down beside him, hands clasped in her lap, wide-eyed to banish the tears.

"Last night," he ventures. "I _ wanted _ to. More than anything, I wanted to."

Bethany stares ahead, 

"You are…" Alistair lets out a ragged breath. "You're perfect. You must know you're perfect. You deserve better. Someone who when he's with you…thinks of you. _ Only _ of you."

"Oh." She doesn't lose the steel in her spine, or the hard set of her jaw: still, somehow, she shrinks. "I understand. The Warden-Commander. The _ Hero _."

"No! That's not it at all. It was nothing but a stupid infatuation. I thought I was in love, but I didn't know - " He abandons the dressing to place a hand on her shoulder, a carefully neutral place. "Please. Let me explain." 

_ How can I explain? _

"You know that my first time wasn't…" Already, he flounders. "You know."

Bethany touches her fingers to his. "I remember."

This isn't something he wanted to think about again, much less talk about. If only he could put it away in some secret compartment and have it done forever. 

"I didn't like her. She didn't like me, and she made sure I knew it at every opportunity. When I knew what had to happen…"

His face is burning. Maker, he must look like a rage demon. But Bethany is watching him with clear brown eyes, willing him to continue. 

"I wasn't sure that I could. That my body would…you know. And then it happened, and it was - I hated it, but I _ didn't _. I didn't know what to make of it. I still don't."

He puts his head in his hands.

"Last night I thought of that. I didn't mean to. I don't want anyone but you, not ever. And I can't stand thinking about that night, about _ her _ , when all I want to think about is you." He rakes his fingers through his hair, not sure if guilt or humiliation will finish him off first. "You deserve better. Maker, you deserve _ everything, _and I'm nothing."

She's silent for so long. _ Of course it was too good to be true. _ He can't look at her. _ Of course I bollocksed it up. It's what I do. _

At last she speaks, and her voice trembles with some emotion he can't place. 

"I've had enough of being 'perfect'. I've made myself small my whole life because my _ existence _was a problem, and my sister and brother were enough trouble for any family to handle. I don't need those sort of expectations from you." 

Shaking hands smooth down her thighs. 

"I don't pretend to know what you went through. But do you think I'd judge you for how you feel? Do you think I care who you're thinking about, as long as you _ want _ to be with me?" Her voice rises, and with clenched fists she drags it back down. "I've been to the Void and back since we left Lothering. For the Maker's sake, Alistair, would you _ look at me?" _

The raw edge to her last words snaps him out of his stupor. "I'm sorry -" 

The words die on his tongue. Her eyes are dry but her lip trembles; her dark curls fall across her face. Maker, but she's beautiful. 

"Let me be the judge of what I deserve." She puts a hand on his cheek and _ oh no, _he's far too much in love. "I've lost everyone. Don't you dare run away from me." 

There's nothing to be done, nothing at all, but to kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. 

A ragged group of Drydens arrive up the newly cleared mountain road, bearing sacks of corn and pumpkin seeds, and leading a pack of bleating goats. Amongst them is Nita's mother. Berta Dryden is an effusive, ruddy, flaxen-haired woman, as different to her daughter as night is from day. 

"We've never had no magic in the family," she tells Bethany. "My brother died in a fire, but he were drunk on festival wine, we were sure 'twas an accident. I've five more, don't know what I'm to do if they turn out t'same. No harm intended, miss. It's a hard life, is all." She holds out a package. "A token of our gratitude." 

Her eyes mist over as Bethany unwinds the cloth bundle. 

"It i'nt new, nor fashionable. But we had it altered to your measurements."

It's a dress, white with blue embroidery about the skirt and bodice. Bethany stares, dumbstruck. It's lovely, but for a Warden…?

"I really haven't done anything," she protests. "It's beautiful. But wouldn't you rather keep it for your children? I don't know when I'll have a chance to wear it." 

Berta winks. "Wear it for your young man," she suggests. "I've no doubt he'll approve."

No doubt he would, she thinks, twirling in the privacy of her room. But when is the right time? Where is the right place? 

He's still so wary around her, it breaks her heart. 

A letter arrives from Marian. A surprise, after the words Bethany wrote when she first arrived. It's sardonic, subtly excoriating, _ forgiving. _

It's difficult to be cut loose from Marian's orbit. She's such a force of nature; it's like being cast adrift, when all Bethany's ever known is riding the coattails of the hurricane, safe in the eye of the storm. 

_ Oh, _she misses her, with an ache nearly as fierce as Carver's absence. Without her, Bethany has to be a whole person. Visible, for better or worse. Which begs the question: if she'd arrived into Alistair's life trailing three steps behind Marian, would he have even seen her? 

The letter mentions all their companions but one, and that's telling. Marian's love is a sharp, too-bright thing: even she can't look at it directly. While Bethany - _ before Alistair _ \- guarded her heart by sticking to the shadows, Marian's is on glittering display in a cage of razor-sharp wire. A dare to the foolhardy. 

There's only one person she knows who could reach in and grab it. 

Bethany laughs past the lump in her throat. She hopes they can make it work without cutting each other to pieces. Of course, Marian Hawke would never _ fall _ in love. She'd dive in, the way she does with everything else: headfirst, eyes closed. 

Maker willing, he'll catch her. 

Summer is nearing an end when the wagon returns from Vigil's Keep: the Dryden boys arrive wrapped in scarves against the mountain wind, noses reddened. One carries in his pocket a letter, messily sealed with a dark blue griffon. 

Alistair can't help but smile at the writing within. The painstaking, neat work of record-keeping is a First's job, but the Warden-Commander was first and foremost a hunter. Her script has a mind of its own, as wild and uncaring as Lyna herself: round and looping, inconsistent in size. 

The smile fades as he takes in the letter's contents. Even when he gets to the last page, signed with an _ L _ (she never cared much for protocol) and an ink splotch, smeared with the back of a hand.

He sends first for Nita and Berta Dryden. And Bethany, in the hopes the girl will be less intimidated with her there. Meanwhile he coopts the Warden-Commander's office for privacy, fighting the impulse to kick the old oaken desk. 

_ What are you playing at, Lyna? _

Bethany arrives first: she looks at him questioningly, but he scarcely has a chance to open his mouth before the Dryden girl is shepherded in by her mother. She looks half ready to keel over. 

"You won't be sent to the Circle," he says without preamble - no point in prolonging her misery. "But you are to go to Amaranthine."

Nita gapes, swaying a little with what he hopes is relief. "Amaranthine?" 

"You may stay with the Wardens until you come of age. You'll be expected to train in magic - combat too, if you choose - and earn your keep."

"Of course, ser," says her mother. "Goes without saying."

Nita's voice is small. "And when I'm of age?" 

"The Warden-Commander has given you a choice." He avoids looking at Bethany. "You can be conscripted into the Wardens. It's not without risk, and it is permanent. Or you'll be free to leave. Whether to the Circle, or to take your chances in the world." 

Her eyes well up with tears; they spill down her face unheeded. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's the best we can offer."

"Thank you," she whispers. "Oh, thank you."

"We can still see her?" Berta pulls her daughter close. "Even if she's a Warden?" 

"Wardens aren't expected to cut family ties. And until then I see no reason why not. You can even go home when your time is up, if you don't want to join. But you won't have our protection, and you can't return to Soldiers Peak. You'll be an apostate."

"It's more than generous, ser. It's more than we could have hoped for." Berta's eyes are rimmed red. "The Drydens will remember your kindness."

"Well." Flustered, he finally looks to Bethany, but she's staring at the floor. "I'm afraid you have less than a week to prepare. The Wardens have been called south, and the Warden-Commander would have you leave before we do."

Bethany's head snaps up. "We're going to fight the darkspawn?" 

His tongue feels like lead. _ "We _are. You're to accompany Nita to Amaranthine."

_ Bugger, _ he should have told her this in private - but at least she can see the girl's expression lighten, her journey now that little bit less daunting. 

"But -" Her eyes flicker between them. "Won't you need a mage?" 

_ Need. Yes. _

"You can go, Nita." He opens the door and the Dryden women file out, Berta still offering effusive thanks. Once they're gone he leans on the closed door, eyes shut. Perhaps when he opens them, this all will have passed. 

"Alistair?" 

No: there are her brown eyes, filled with uncertainty. 

"We'll have a mage." Lyna is sending a squadron from Vigil's Keep, including Sigrun and Velanna. "With any luck it will be over quickly."

"And then?" 

"Wardens get moved around, Beth. Ferelden isn't so huge that we won't cross paths again."

"Cross -" She shakes her head. "I don't want to just _ cross paths. _What if something happens?" 

"That's the job." If only he had a comforting lie; better yet, a comforting truth. "We put ourselves in danger."

"Not me," she says bitterly. "I'll be hiding away in Amaranthine while the rest of you face Maker knows what."

"Are you so eager to face the darkspawn again? Nita needs your help."

"And what about you?" 

"I need -" He rakes blunt fingernails across his stubble. "Maker, Bethany. I need to know you trust me not to die. Not without trying to get back to you. I need you to believe I'll do _ anything _to get back to you."

She hits him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, wrapping her arms around his middle. "It's too soon," she mumbles against his chest. "I just found you. It's not _ fair." _

"Oh." His hands hover, then rest at the small of her back; it feels as though they were meant to fit there. "I'm more used to people falling over themselves to be rid of me, if I'm perfectly honest."

"Stop, you." Bethany stands on her toes to kiss his mouth. "I refuse to be rid of you."

"You'll learn," he mutters. He lowers her back to the ground, chasing her lips with his. 

"No," she sighs, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. "I'm a very slow learner."

It seems the summer still has some teeth. The next day dawns and the wind has died down to a pleasant breeze; the morning sun coats Bethany's skin like warm honey. 

She hardly needs to prepare. All she owns could fit in a bundle. The dress lies across her little bed; it's so soft, so light and pretty. 

She supposes she's about to earn it. It's no chore teaching Nita, in fact it fulfils some urge in her to teach, to guide the way her father guided her. If only she felt less like she was letting everyone else down. 

A little bit of her sister, and possibly even her mother comes to the fore (she did, after all, run away with an apostate; she did, after all, become pregnant with Bethany's sister and _ then _ marry). She looks at the dress, and she looks at her life, and she thinks, _ fuck it, why not? _

"We're going on a picnic," she announces. Alistair, bent over a stack of ledgers, looks up in shock. 

"What?" He takes in her dress, undeniably feminine even with her worn old boots. "Sorry, I mean - what?" 

"A picnic." She carries a basket from the kitchens: bread, butter, preserves, a flask of mint tea. Crucially, a wheel of cheese. "Now."

He's torn. "I have this…"

"Can it wait?" Bethany leans against the door frame and brushes her bottom lip with the pad of her thumb, eyes wide and mock-guileless; yes, she's fighting dirty. 

He scrubs a hand across his brow, fighting the grin that creeps across his face. "I don't know, Beth…" She's won. "Can I change?" 

She walks over and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Hurry."

She waits at the bottom of the stairs, anticipation fluttering in her belly. Perhaps it will be nothing; perhaps he'll be shy, or she'll freeze up, or they'll both be too embarrassed to do anything but eat and drink, and maybe hold hands on the way home. 

He takes the steps two at a time, dressed in shirt and breeches with a blanket tucked under his arm. "I'm sorry," he says breathlessly, "it took longer than I thought." His hair is damp, and about him there's a lingering scent of soap and cleansing herbs. He grins, a hopeful, open grin. "Where are we going?" 

Her smile matches his, so wide it makes her face ache. "Come and find out."

The orchard embraces the coming autumn: leaves of the pear trees crackle underfoot, green and yellow and flame-red. Bees hum in the warmth, and tiny lizards scurry away at their approach. Bethany holds out her hand, and when he twines his warm fingers through hers, it feels her heart might burst from the perfection of it all. He reaches up and snags two pieces of fruit from the branches, and they eat as they walk. 

"Here?" she suggests. They're out of sight of the fortress, older trees creating a sort of grove in which tiny blue wildflowers litter the ground. A little rivulet winds through mossy tufts, vanishing beneath the rocks at the clearing's edge. 

"Perfect," he says, without taking his eyes off her. 

While Alistair arranges the blanket Bethany peels off her boots and lets the stream run over her bare toes. It's freezing - they are in the mountains, after all - and she dances from foot to foot, holding her skirts up to keep from splashing them. 

She turns to find Alistair crouching with his hands on the blanket, apparently frozen in the act of smoothing it down. 

"Haven't you seen legs before?" she teases. 

His eyes travel up to hers, and the heat in them makes her belly flutter. "Not quite like this," he says unsteadily. Bethany laughs, spinning in a circle, and when she comes to a stop he's _ there, _one hand in her hair and the other at her hip and his mouth pear-sweet on hers. There's an odd, dizzy feeling, like all the blood in her body surges towards him. 

"Do you feel that?" she breathes. 

Alistair laughs, his eyes lingering on her parted lips. "Magic," he whispers, and kisses her some more. 

Later, she can't remember tasting a bite of food. His leg is warm, pressed up against hers, and so is his shoulder, and at intervals he turns and kisses her temple: as if, she thinks, he's making sure she is real. 

She doesn't want to rush him but _ oh, _she does. 

He offers her the last of the tea; with a smile, she demurs. He puts the flask aside and then they're kissing breathlessly, _ helplessly, _ all uncertain searching hands and whispers of _ yes? Yes, oh yes. _

Bethany's beyond second-guessing; she tugs the dress over her head and sets it carefully aside, because she's fairly certain when Berta said _ wear it for your young man, _she didn't mean - well. A laugh bursts free, pure and clear and happy. 

"I'm dreaming." Alistair strokes her hair, letting the strands fall through his fingers. "Or dead. Could I be dead?" Rough fingertips trace down the side of her neck - _ oh Maker, he might have a point - _and rest at the ties of her shift. 

"Please," she breathes, and she's seen Marian disarm traps with less care than he works the ribbons through their little eye holes until the shift falls free of her shoulders. 

"Bethany," he says wonderingly, "Bethany," and then they're lying down somehow, his lips at her shoulder and her hands beneath his shirt, branding each inch of skin to memory. 

"That's me," she says, laughing. 

"I know." He lets her help him out of his shirt. "I just like saying it."

"Good." He's beautiful. He's just…beautiful. Silvery scars here and there, a smattering of tawny hair, a trail from his bellybutton to oh, _ oh, he's beautiful. _She leans up to taste his salt skin and he groans, his head falling to her shoulder. 

"Is this alright?" She runs her fingertips through his hair. "Tell me if it's not."

"Wait," he says. "Wait." A flurry of activity, and his boots are gone. A wordless exchange - _ yes? yes - _and his breeches follow. 

"Alistair?" Her fingertips linger at the hem of her shift, inching the fabric up her thighs. 

Eager lips meet hers; eager hands help her shift up and away. 

"Oh, my…" His hands still at her hips. His mouth presses to her jaw, her neck, her shoulder again. The inside of her elbow, her wrist. The ticklish skin of her belly, and she's dying, _ dying _with need. 

Alistair's broad hands cover her breasts and he presses tender lips to her sternum. It's unfair, the touch exactly what she dreamed but falling short: she wants to arch against him, she wants to grab his hands and make them _ squeeze _ and rub, knead and _ pinch _ and who _ knows _ what else. 

Instead he looks up at her, breathing hard. "I don't know what I'm doing," he confesses. "I don't want to hurt - are you sure this is what you want? You're so -" 

She stops his mouth with a kiss. "Shush," she murmurs. "It feels right, doesn't it?" 

"Yes." But his burnt-sugar eyes flicker over her face and _ Maker, _he looks anything but certain, like she's some wild animal he's trying to coax and a sudden movement might make her disappear forever. 

It breaks her heart, a little bit. 

"I choose you," she tells him, holding his face in her hands. "If I could have anyone in the world, I would still choose you."

She can see his doubt. It doesn't matter: she'll show him. Sooner or later he'll know there's no one else. There'll never be anyone else. 

They wriggle, shedding the last barriers between them. 

He kisses her mouth, and his fingers wrap around her hip, and the little distance between them becomes nothing at all. 

Oh. _ Oh. _ It's like nothing she's ever felt, an adjustment and then liquid warmth and then - need, she needs she _ needs. _

Alistair gasps, and his hips move, and _ move, _and she can feel her soul unravel and knit into something new - 

Time stretches and white magic dances on their skin, coils low and tight and hot inside her - 

Everything collapses in trembling, breathtaking bliss - 

He calls her name, and a tremor runs through his body and into hers. _Completion_. 

"Oh," she sighs. "Oh my."

Alistair laughs a warm, shuddering laugh. "That was everything." His lips seek hers, soft and beautiful. "_You_ are everything."

"Thank you," she whispers, heartfelt. "Thank you."

He still can't stop kissing her: eyebrows, temple, chin, jaw. The corner of her mouth. "I'll come back," he promises. He rests his face in the crook of her neck. "For you, always."


	6. fresh-fallen snow // orlesian perfume // yarn

Alistair is assumed in some circles to be a little slow on the uptake; it wouldn't be entirely wrong to say it's a reputation he's carefully fostered in the past. It's hard to disappoint when people don't expect much. 

What only a few people know - Duncan was one of them, and Lyna always suspected - is that when he's invested in a subject, he can be a remarkably quick study. 

He's _ very _ invested in Bethany. 

He learns her. Beginning in the grove, on the blanket, their entire bodies and souls bared. He learns the musculature of her arms, the freckles of her chest, the brushes of his fingertips that make her pulse race and her breath stutter. The curve of her hips and the softness of her belly, the salt-sweet taste of her skin. 

He learns her life and how it intersects with his in odd and surprising ways: not just Anders but Leliana, Isabela, Bodahn Feddic and his strange son. Lyna's clan at the foot of Sundermount, and Flemeth, somehow alive. 

"It's enough to make you believe in…" He hesitates, fingers tracing her hipbone. 

"Fate?" 

It seems too strong, too confident a word. "Luck."

"The Blight was luck?" 

"I didn't say it was good luck."

Her laugh is the only sound he needs to hear ever, ever again. "It brought us here though, didn't it?" She tugs him down and wraps her legs around him and _ wait, no, _that happy little sigh is the sound he'd choose. 

_ You don't have to choose, _he reminds himself. But everything can pass. Everything can be lost, in this world. 

For now, he loses himself in her.

There's much to be done in these last days. When they can spare a moment they sneak away, tucking themselves into nooks and shadows. Nobody is fooled. 

Bethany lights candles in her little room and sends wisps of magelight to dance near the ceiling, banishing the dark. They make love like newlyweds on the low, narrow bed, her fingers digging into the small of his back, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart. The little lights flare and erupt into brilliance as she crests, drifting down around them as pure and white as fresh-fallen snow. 

In the aftermath he lies himself down carefully beside her; he's too big, too clumsy, he must be both lover and mattress if he's to keep from displacing her. He strokes her spine, whispers his adoration into her ear: he wonders if it will ever stop feeling like a dream. 

Perhaps Lyna will arrive and he'll wake on the floor in the Circle tower. 

But he holds her tighter, and waking doesn't bring the cold marble of Kinloch Hold beneath his cheek. It brings numb limbs, a stiff neck and Bethany's arms twined around him, and he wouldn't change it for the world.

* * *

Separation approaches: it doesn't matter. The joy of it is enough to kill her. His presence wrapped around her like the air she breathes, his love warming her skin from without and within. It's more than she allowed herself even to wish for. 

On the eve of her departure Alistair slips into her room, leaning against the door. 

"Hello," he says. A grin spreads across his face, slow and sheepish and utterly charming. 

She sits up, blankets falling about her waist. "Hello yourself." Shifting the little space allowed, she pats the mattress beside her. 

He shakes his head. "I came to…" Beneath the bronzed skin, his cheeks glow. "I'd like to give you something to remember me by."

"I'm hardly going to forget you." She looks in confusion at his empty hands. "What is it?" 

Alistair's grin widens and his blush intensifies. "I'm glad to hear that." 

"So will you tell me what it is?" 

"I need to show you."

"Show me?" 

Alistair's eyes crinkle; his gaze skims the length of her body, and she feels a blush travel all the way down. "If you insist." He approaches the bed, confidence growing with each step. "Remember how you told me men were good for one thing, and women for six?" 

"According to Isabela, yes…"

Alistair has reached the foot of her bed, and he tugs the blankets down. "I've been thinking about it, and I think men might be good for one or two things…other."

Anticipation sharpens in her belly. "You _ do _ do that one thing exceptionally well." She lets him guide her back down to the pillow, kissing her thoroughly as he does. "Mmm…" she mumbles against his lips. "You're quite good at that, too."

His eyes are full of warmth and intensity when he looks down at her, curling a lock of her hair in his fingers. "That's encouraging." Hands and lips travel down the length of her body until he's crouched over her at the foot of the bed, fingertips paused beneath the hem of her nightgown. "Trust me?" he asks hoarsely, and the best she can manage is a nod, and a sort of strained whimper. 

Because one doesn't spend time in Isabela's company without learning a thing or two (however you might cover your ears and recite the Chant, some knowledge can't be unheard), and she knows what he intends even before his beard scrapes her thighs and then _ oh, sweet Maker - _

Her heart wants to climb out of her ribcage; her fingers ache from gripping the sheets _too tightly_ but it's unimportant, all there is in the world is the sinful pull of his mouth and his broad hands pinning her hips down as he plunders her (truly, she spent too much time with Isabela, _plunders?), _and somebody is whimpering and breathing _all wrong_ and _Maker, _could it be Bethany's own lips forming those broken pleas, is that high keening noise going to cause someone to kick the door in and rescue her? 

She'd fight them. 

And when it comes it's almost too much, the sharp intensity of a whip cracking or a lightning strike, and as she floats in a murky golden haze it occurs to her to crack her eyelids open to make sure - _ no, _ no lightning, just the candles flaring bright and the ceiling swimming above her - and she takes in a shuddering breath and sighs, a long and heartfelt, _ "Ohhh." _

Down at the end of the bed, Alistair breathes a soft huff of laughter. "Was that memorable, then?" 

"Oh," she repeats, throwing an arm across her brow. "I think everyone on this floor will remember that."

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'd have warned you if I'd known it'd be quite that…wow."

As the glow ebbs, she begins to feel self-conscious: it's inevitable, splayed before him, perhaps the most vulnerable she's ever been. "Too much?" she asks. 

"No," he replies. _ "No." _ Scrambling to join her on the narrow mattress, he gathers her close and stares into her eyes. "Never too much. You're…" She senses him bite back on the word, _ perfect. _"Just right. Just as you should be."

It's not until much later, until after they've kissed and kissed, after he's turned her onto her belly and covered her body with his and reduced her to a tender, boneless mess: it's not until then that she squeezes his fingers and sighs into the pillow _ I love you. _ And he goes soft and heavy and kisses between her shoulder blades, and _ love _ seems too small a word to encompass what she feels. 

* * *

"You've got your quilted jacket?" Berta flutters around the wagon, peering into sacks and rucksacks and her daughter's cloak pockets. "Winter's coming, you know.'

"Ma," Nita protests faintly. "I have everything I own. I could hardly forget something."

"No time for us to make you decent woollens, but I'll send some along when they're done. We can't have you freezing." She turns abruptly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. 

"Ma," says Nita. "Ma. I'll be fine. Will you see to my birds?" 

Berta sniffs. "Never much liked birds. Crows less than most."

"Ravens, Ma."

"Don't matter. I'll take care of 'em. Your brothers and sisters too, they'll keep things in order."

Nita reaches for her mother's weathered hand. "They're children, Ma. Let them be children, while they can be." 

Alistair must look away: it's too raw, too intimate for a stranger to see. The intricacies of family are lost on him, this tangled yarn that binds people together. 

Beside him, Bethany grips her staff. "You will take care, won't you?" 

"I survived the Blight, didn't I?" 

Her brown eyes are grave. "_You _ did."

"Sorry. I'm an ass." He kisses her head. "Perhaps that's why I survived?" 

Her lips twist. "I don't know about that. You never met my brother."

"I'm sure I'd have liked him."

"He'd have liked you too. Especially if you could beat my sister in an arm wrestle."

"And could I?" 

"No." A gust of mountain breeze rushes past them, and she shivers. "Listen, when I said -" 

"I love you."

"Yes. When I said -" 

"I _love_ _you_." He waits for her wondering eyes to meet his, then places a tentative palm on her cheek. "I hope…did you mean it?" 

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't." She fumbles in her pouch for a moment. "It's not as good as your gift," she tells him with a fetching blush, "but something to remember me by."

A neatly folded square of soft red cloth; it's the neckerchief she was wearing when they first met. "As if I could forget," he says softly, rubbing it between fingers and thumb.

"I'd put a barrier over you, if I thought it would last."

"This will do just as well. Remind me I have someone to survive for."

"Not just survive." Bethany tugs at his shoulders, bringing him closer for a lingering kiss. "Live. We're going to live."

Tangling his fingers in her hair, he presses his mouth to her parted lips and fills his senses with her, only her: likely people are watching, but he can't bring himself to care. "That's a plan I can get behind," he whispers. "We'll live." And he hopes his eyes, and his hands, and his lips can convey all the words he can't say here and now. 

* * *

It's odd leaving their little bubble on Soldiers Peak again, this time without Alistair. There's so little for Bethany to do: the tunnels, and beyond that the roads, are blessedly free of darkspawn. 

There are few inns between the Warden strongholds, but at each the Drydens are known; people look at Bethany's staff with a wary eye, but welcome her nonetheless as a Warden. It's not just the Blight fresh in people's memories, Levi explains, but the Warden-Commander's efforts in saving Amaranthine. 

"She wouldn't leave 'em to burn," he says admiringly. "The Keep was under threat but she wouldn't abandon the city. A Dalish elf, no less. Folk didn't think she'd make a stand but I knew. A hero, just like they say." He inclines his head to Bethany. "Alistair too, but he wasn't in that fight. Busy cleaning up after the Archdemon. Not a task anyone else but Wardens could manage safely, poor sods." He swats at the oxen with a long switch. "There it is," he says with a nod. "Vigil's Keep."

Bethany's taken aback: after the grim facade of Soldiers Peak, Vigil's Keep seems almost rustic. The high walls are a new touch; behind them the buildings sprout like mushrooms, towers and precarious upper stories seemingly added as afterthought. The walls are wattle-and-daub, the crenellations timber. 

"First fortress to fall to the Orlesians." Levi spits on the road. "It only stood up to the last darkspawn attack thanks to the Commander's upgrades." He's a little starstruck when he speaks of the Hero. 

She glances back at Nita, huddled pale and miserable amongst the crates and barrels. "The threat is over for now. Did you see any darkspawn during the Blight?" 

"No." Her voice is barely heard over the rattle of the wagon. "We were in Denerim at the end, but Da boarded up the doors and windows." She tugs on a corner of her cloak. "Did you?" 

_ Crawling over the land like ants on honey, crops withering in the fields, distant fires burning…the ogre, taller than a house and waves of stench rolling toward them, Carver steps forward, she's frozen… _

"Yes," she says. 

A dark-haired Warden at the gatehouse waves them through, nodding to Levi and giving Bethany a sharp glance. She smiles and is met with a dark stare, before he turns his eyes back to the road. 

"Wouldn't worry about that one, Miss Bethany. He's nice enough once he gets to know you."

It's oddly quiet. At the Peak there's always the ring of the forge, the quiet burble of chickens in the garden; it's not much, but enough to feel its absence. The merchant stalls are manned and greet the Drydens with enthusiasm, but Bethany and Nita are left to their own devices for now. 

They wander, glad to have the use of their legs again after a time on the wagon. There's a small row of saplings, a silvery bark Bethany doesn't recognise. Before each of them is a stone plinth. 

Nita bends down, tracing the letters with her fingertips. "What does _ Mhairi _ mean?" 

"Oh." She peers at the engraving. "I don't know."

"It means _ waste_." The voice is soft but unexpected; both girl and woman startle. "Pointless sacrifice."

She appears seemingly from nowhere; a petite woman with fern-green eyes, golden hair in a riot of knots and beads, a long and ornate braid down her back. Her voice is low and a little husky, with the same lilt that Merrill carries. 

"It's a name," she says softly, running a small hand down the bark. "They're all names."

Beneath her blue-and-silver surcoat she wears a pair of simple leggings; her feet are bare. Despite this she carries an air of quiet authority. 

She's every bit as beautiful as they say. 

Bethany is dumbstruck; funnily, Nita is the first to speak. "Did they die?" 

Lyna's mouth is a flat line. "Yes."

"Was it darkspawn?" 

The elf glances at Bethany, her dark brows furrowing for a moment. "You could say that, I suppose."

"Hello." Under that level stare, any elven greeting she might have known flees her mind. "Bethany Hawke." She puts out a hand, wishing she'd learned more from Merrill about her people's customs. 

If the gesture is inappropriate, Lyna doesn't let on; her hand is cool and dry, her grip firm. "And you must be Nita."

"Yes ma'am."

"Andaran atish’an." She wastes no more time on pleasantries, spinning on her heel to lead them inside. "We're quiet at the moment, I'm afraid. Most of us have gone south to Gwaren."

"Will you join them?" ventures Bethany. 

"When I'm needed there more than I am here, I will." She takes the steps two at a time. "Nita, I hope you don't mind sharing a room with Bethany for now? We have space in the servants' quarters, but given the circumstances…"

"I'm grateful to be here, ma'am."

"The circumstances?" Bethany asks, more tartly than she intended. 

"A new mage is an unknown quantity, Bethany Hawke. Even the Dalish know that."

"Is it true," Nita asks, apparently growing in boldness while Bethany shrinks, "that mages who show their powers when they're older are less strong?" Her hopeful tone cracks Bethany's heart.

"I'm surprised you would ask me," Lyna answers, leading them into the spacious main hall. "I'm not even a mage." If there's a judgement of Bethany in her words it's subtle, but it burns all the same. "Truly, though? I think not. The shemlen are ignorant to the early signs. Weaker mages may start early, but not show any obvious magic until they're older. Where some of the most powerful might stumble upon their abilities later, but be deemed weak by those stuck in the Chantry mindset. Who knows how many promising talents are lost to the Harrowing?"

Bethany agrees with every sentiment, yet somehow is left feeling defensive. She's not a part of that system; she never has been. 

"Nita, you must be starved. The kitchen is through that door, they're expecting new arrivals." It's a small glimpse of the warmth Alistair described, lost when Nita leaves the room. Then there's merely silence, and cool, unblinking green eyes. 

There's a moment in which to study the Hero, and Bethany finds herself wanting: too drab, too timid, large and coarse-featured, lacking in grace. 

Then she takes a breath. She remembers the reverence in Alistair's touch. The overjoyed smile that is hers alone. The words he whispers as he cradles her, the brush of his knuckles along her jaw, the softness of his lips on her throat. 

Bethany is loved. She is _ adored, _and she doesn't need to compare herself to anyone. 

Not any more. 

"Was it the Joining?" she brings herself to ask. "Mhairi, and the others?" 

Lyna's eyes tighten. "Yes."

"Is it a Warden custom, or…?" 

"No." She tugs at the hem of her sleeve. "I find myself cut off from the customs I grew up with. It helps a little bit to make my own."

"I met your clan in the Free Marches," Bethany says in a rush, and sees a flash of - it almost looks like _ hunger _ \- in the elf's eyes, before her composure returns. 

"Oh yes? How do they fare?" 

"They have a place to stay. It's…safe probably isn't the right word. Isolated? Merrill has told me about you. She lives in Kirkwall."

"Merrill? In a city?" Her fingers twitch; Bethany can tell there's so much she wants to know but it's not the time, she must be the Commander, she must _ lead. _She rolls her shoulders, shakes her head, straightens her spine. 

It's painful to watch. 

"Bethany Hawke," she says, drawing strength. "I'm told that you and Alistair have become close."

"Is that so?" she asks, voice almost steady.

There's a groan from the corner of the room, and the click-click of nails on the boards; a block-headed Mabari pushes beneath Lyna's hand and accepts a scratch behind the ears. 

Lyna's mouth twitches. "I suppose that's my question."

"In that case, yes. We are close. Is this a problem?" 

Bethany wonders for a moment if she's been possessed by her sister. 

"That all depends on you, Bethany Hawke."

"Bethany is fine."

"Bethany." Lyna perches on the edge of the fire pit. "I'm sure you're aware of Alistair's ancestry."

"I'm aware."

"So you might also be aware that people have sought to manipulate him in the past."

One example springs to mind: the eve of battle with the archdemon, a dark bargain. "Yes," she says, with more bite than intended. "I'm aware."

Lyna's eyes widen a fraction. "You must understand my misgivings," she says coolly. "You appear from nowhere, and in a matter of months you've worked your way into his affections -" 

"How long did it take you?" Bethany's nails dig into her palms, aware she's dangerously close to insubordination. "He's not so easy with his affections. Is it inconceivable that someone could love him for who he is?" 

_ Love. _ The word hangs in the air, heavy and awkward. Lyna raises a single brow, and Bethany bites her tongue, _ hard. _

"There are secrets that belong to the Wardens. Things that should not be shared." If she means what Bethany thinks, it's not the _Wardens_' secret. "Has he told you anything of this nature?" 

She crosses her arms. "I can assure you that anything Alistair tells me in confidence stays between the two of us."

Lyna waits. And waits. Bethany holds her gaze until she laughs, high and musical. She ruffles the Mabari's fur. "He's done well," she says, warmth finally reaching her eyes. "Sigrun was right about you."

"Sigrun?" 

"She spoke highly of you. Forgive me if I had to get your measure for myself."

"Are you serious?" Bethany feels heat flooding her cheeks. "You talk about him being manipulated, but you move us around like…like pieces on a board?" 

"Don't mistake me, Bethany. We need you here for Nita's sake. Normally we have Velanna, but…" Her hands spread wide. "We don't want to terrify her more than she has been already. And Velanna has little interest in mentoring a human child. Until the danger has passed, we really do need you."

"When has the danger passed?" 

"Sooner than you might think. You were raised outside the Circle. I am happy to leave it to your discretion."

The dog stumbles to his feet, kicking each leg out behind him with a protracted yawn. He ambles over to Bethany and leans hard enough against her to almost make her stumble. 

"Sul likes you. That's a good sign. And Nathaniel doesn't trust you, so you have that in your favour."

"Who?" She digs her fingernails into the dog's ruff, missing her own dog with a fierce ache. "How is that a good thing?" 

"He's a terrible judge of character. Truly the worst."

"How does he know me?" 

"He doesn't. He disapproves of most new people on principle. But he'll show you to your room." She nods to the shadows in the corner: they resolve into the sharp-featured man from the gate house. 

"Disapproval is too strong a word." He's well-spoken; he offers her a thin-lipped smile; his arms remain crossed. "But caution rarely goes astray. Nathaniel Howe."

"Good evening," she replies, manners impeccable. "Bethany Hawke." She holds out her hand, and with a barely-repressed scowl he takes it. 

"Well-met, my lady."

"Bethany and her charge will stay in the east wing, Nathaniel." 

"You mean…?" 

"Yes."

He salutes, a clenched fist to his shoulder. "Commander."

"I'll let you settle in." Lyna bows her head. "We will speak more tomorrow." She kneels, digging her fingers into the dog's thick ruff. It's a clear dismissal. 

"My sister has a Mabari," she tells Nathaniel as they navigate the stairs and corridors of the Keep. "She won him in a fight, but he was happy enough to change hands. His name is Blighty."

That's enough to earn an incredulous glance from Nathaniel. She shrugs. 

"It would make sense if you knew her."

"Huh." A ginger cat streaks by, hugging the wall. "You'd be surprised what makes sense to me."

After an age, he stops in front of an oak door. 

"Here," he says, pushing it open with an indifferent hand. "The Drydens will likely bring your things up, but after that you're expected to do most things yourself."

"I'm not unused to hard work." She steps into the room: it's light, spacious, with a canopied bed and a loveseat by the window. There's a wardrobe against the far wall; she opens it to the faint scents of cedar and Orlesian perfume. 

Inside are dresses of rich fabric, finely tailored. Bethany hesitates to touch them. "Whose are these?" she asks. 

Nathaniel leans against the door frame. "This was my mother's room," he says in a flat voice. "It was as far as she could get from my father while living under the same roof."

"Howe." Could she really have been so dense? "Like the Arl."

"Not too alike, I hope."

"Then you should have these."

"They're not really my style."

"Still. You must have some use for them. A relative?" 

He shrugs, still wary. "My sister lives in Amaranthine. If she doesn't want to wear them she could sell them. But I'll need to check with Mahariel: strictly speaking everything here belongs to the Grey Wardens."

"I can put them in my trunk once it's empty. They should stay in your family - they are beautiful."

She glances back at Nathaniel. He scrubs the back of his hand across his face. "Do that, if you like. Did you - is it true you know Anders?" 

"I do." Closing the wardrobe door, she looks at him: _ really _looks at him. His shoulders are tucked in a defensive hunch; his grey eyes hide layer upon layer of pain. 

"Is he…is he happy?" 

Bethany pictures Anders in his dank clinic: harried, stretched thin, fighting against an implacable tide. "He's…no. But he's not alone. He has friends."

"That's something, I suppose," Nathaniel says. "If he has friends, he has hope." He unfolds his lanky frame, giving an infinitesimal bow. "Welcome to Vigil's Keep, Bethany Hawke. May you be happier in this room than she was."

When he's gone she makes her way to the window. It's large, but the ancient warped glass lets in little but light; for now, only the muted purple of twilight. 

South. Somewhere to the south, Alistair makes his way to Gwaren. Bethany rests her forehead against the glass. 

Somewhere to the south, her heart beats inside another chest. 


	7. caramel // earrings carved of bone // butterflies

Lady Howe's bed is perhaps the size of the room Bethany shared with her sister in Lowtown, so of course she wakes curled in a ball at the very edge of the mattress. 

Worse, Nita insists on sleeping on the loveseat. 

"Please," she urges before they take their rest, "there's room enough for ten."

Nita draws further into her shawl. "I couldn't, Mistress Hawke. I'd get lost in there."

Bethany can't say she doesn't feel the same. She offers what she hopes is a kindly smile. "We're to share a room; at least call me Bethany."

The girl's dark eyes dart to hers and away. "Yes, Mistress Bethany."

Now as Bethany creeps from bed, she steals a look at her ward. She is tucked in tightly, compact as a bird at roost. The appearance of peace is marred only by the dark smudges beneath her eyes; in sleep she looks even younger than her fourteen years, with the cherubic pout of a newborn. 

On her hip is curled a ginger cat. His cracked eyes lazily track Bethany's movement across the room. 

_ I won't wake her, _she promises silently. He stretches, a proprietary paw snagging its claws in the blankets. Aside from the single flick of an ear, his indifference could not be more plain. 

She takes out her few garments, smooths them as best she can. For now, Lady Howe's dresses are slid to one side while Bethany's own plainspun garb and chainmail takes its place. 

There's precious little to unpack, but Bethany Hawke is nothing if not meticulous. She checks each pouch and pocket of her canvas pack: with luck, she won't need to use it again soon. Then her fingers find a chain, a scrap of vellum attached. 

It might be a remnant from the pack's last owner. It could be something personal, or even dangerous. 

She hesitates only a moment before pulling it out. 

_ I don't know if this brought me luck, _ the blocky script reads, _ but I'm alive…so? I'm told it was my mother's, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind me sharing it with you. I hope at least it brings you comfort, and a reminder that I love you. There it is in writing: I love you. I, Grey Warden Alistair, do love you, Grey Warden Bethany. Please, please, tolerate me for as long as you are able. _

There's an amulet attached to the chain, an image of Andraste run through with a gleaming sword. No, she realises: the stone has been cracked and stuck back together with a silvery lacquer, mended with more care than expertise. She runs her thumb over the bright fissures. _ A reminder that I love you. _It settles between her breasts - is it her imagination, the warmth on her skin? - and becomes a part of her. 

Some might find Vigil’s Keep vast, or confusing, but Bethany is used to the rabbit warren that is Kirkwall. It takes her a handful of turns and a few educated guesses to make her way to the dining hall. 

A table holds a row of steaming tubs: she fills a plate with grains and stewed fruit, and looks for a place to sit. Most of the wardens scattered about are intent on their meals, and she hesitates in hope of a friendly face. 

"Hawke," someone says gruffly. Nathaniel Howe sits nursing a mug of black tea. He nods at the empty bench opposite. 

"Hello," Bethany ventures. 

"Sleep well?" 

"I did." She bites her lip. "I'm sorry if we're intruding…I'd be happy to sleep anywhere else."

Nathaniel shrugs. "It's an empty room. No doubt it'll be stripped and filled with bunks or weapon racks one of these days. Enjoy it while you can - once we can be sure your charge won't raze the place, you'll both be down here with the rest of us peasants." He raises an eyebrow. "She's alone up there?" 

"Fast asleep," Bethany clarifies, "or she was when I left. The cat is keeping an eye on her."

"Ha. Well, he's well-practiced at looking after apostates."

A memory slides into place. "You can't mean…it's not _ Anders' _ cat? He said you made him give it up."

Nathaniel's dark brows draw together. "I did no such thing."

"Not you," she flounders. "The Wardens."

His scowl deepens. "True, to a point."

_ "Rolan." _ It's delivered like a curse, and Bethany jumps; she didn't hear Lyna approach, barefoot. "If I'd been there I'd have told him his rank didn't mean shit in my Wardens. If I hadn't been off looking for -" She shakes her head. " _ Fenhedis, _I gave him the bloody cat. Dread Wolf take that templar's blighted soul and shit it into the Void."

"And a good morning to you too, Warden-Commander." 

"Quiet your mouth, Nathaniel. Where is that…the drink? The morning drink?" The elf dumps her plate on the table. It's a microcosm of the serving table: flatbread, eggs and cured meats, greens and berries and boiled grains, all vying for space under a drizzle of honey. 

"Tea?" 

"Blight take your tea. The Antivan stuff from Armaas."

"Ahh. The…coffee?" 

"Coffee!" Mahariel slams her palms on the tabletop. "Yes! Where is it?" 

"I'm not convinced you need it, but you may find a pot in the kitchens."

She scowls. "Must everything be a quest? Bring it up here where everyone can enjoy it."

"Not everyone has your expensive tastes, Warden-Commander."

"If you are trying to bait me into making fun of your upbringing…"

"Ha." Sharp and humourless as he sounds, Nathaniel's eyes hold a smile for his Commander. She pokes her tongue at him and stalks off toward the kitchens, peeling a boiled egg as she goes. 

Bethany stares after the Warden-Commander. “Is she - is that the same person I spoke to yesterday?”

Nathaniel fixes her with a sharp stare. “The more comfortable with you she becomes, the more herself she is. You’ll know when she’s fully accepted you - it’s quite terrifying.”

There’s a soft thump beside her. Ser Pounce-A-Lot has graced them with his presence, rubbing his face against her arm. "Did you bring him back, after Anders -?" 

"Pounce? He brought himself back. Wandered around the corridors at night yowling until he drove everyone mad. We took him back to Amaranthine, but when he showed up again…" He gives a morose shrug, stabbing at crumbs on his plate with a long finger. "He got over it. Not much choice, in the end."

"Poor him," Bethany says softly. 

Nathaniel's mouth twists. "These things happen."

"And Rolan?" 

"Dead. It may be that he's mourned somewhere, but it's not here. I couldn't say if it was an accident, but it was a bloody mess by all accounts - not the first one Anders has walked away from."

She tries to remember him walking away in the deep roads; to remember Marian, Varric, anyone. All she recalls is fatigue, nausea, the creeping feeling of not just death, but the loss of self. 

Then came awakening, and the open air, and Alistair… 

Hope takes root in the strangest places, her father sometimes said. 

The days at Vigil's Keep are fuller than those at Soldier's Peak, and it's not difficult to fall into a routine. The wardens are mostly responsible for their own upkeep here, but Bethany is no stranger to hard work. It takes Nita some time to adjust; she’s painfully shy among the Wardens, even Bethany. It’s Lyna who suggests she work in the kennel and stables. Soon she’s invaluable, and has made friends among the stablehands and the animals both.

“A true Fereldan,” says the kennel master. “Never seen the dogs take to one so quickly.”

There’s a raven from Soldier’s Peak, letters for the Warden-Commander and for Nita. So far, there is no news from Gwaren.

Bethany thinks of _ him _\- how his caramel eyes crinkle when he smiles, his hum of contentment when he drags her close against him. The musculature of his back, olive and freckled. His big, hot hands that always seem to be in the right place, for all he claims to be clumsy. These things and more she thinks about - thinks, and thinks, and thinks, until her body feels home to a thousand butterflies and her ears burn, until the soft sheets abrade her skin. How loud and uneven her breath seems! She can barely hear to know if Nita still sleeps. 

Relief is impossible, but so is rest. That's how she finds herself on the cold ramparts, a blanket loose around her shoulders to let the air chill her blood. Pounce bumps against her ankle, weaves between her feet with a trill. 

“You,” she chides him gently.

A dark shape detaches itself from the shadows. “Trouble sleeping, Hawke?”

“I could ask you the same, Howe.”

He gathers Ser Pounce into his arms, a smile in his voice. “That’s fair, I suppose. And yes.”

“I'm assuming it’s not a Warden thing, or we’d be more crowded up here.”

“No.” Nathaniel allows the cat to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. A drizzle begins to fall, beading on hair and blankets. “But we may as well find ourselves back to bed, lest we gather more moisture than we can handle. I know our friend here doesn’t appreciate the damp.”

“He’d have been right at home in Darktown. The rain doesn’t make it down there. Then again, the damp makes it everywhere.”

“Darktown?” He goes still. “Is that where...?

“Anders has a clinic there. It’s where the poorest and most destitute of Kirkwall live. They’d be lost without him.”

“But he’s a mage!”

“He’s not unprotected. The Fereldan refugees hide him. And my sister.”

Howe seems unimpressed. “Your sister?” The cat shakes off the rain, digging needle claws into his shoulder, and he deposits him on the ground.

“I wouldn’t discount her. She’s a force of nature, and Anders is her friend. If the Templars want him, they’ll have to go through her...and my money would not be on the Templars.”

He rubs at his brow. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“You would, if you knew Marian.” Bethany smiles, gathering the blanket around her. “She’ll take care of him.” She heads back to her room, leaving Ser Pounce running figure eights around Nathaniel’s ankles.

  
  
  


It's been a while since Alistair was in the deep roads. Last year chasing down stragglers beneath the Keep. Before that during the Blight with Lyna and Leliana, watching them grow closer by the day. At least here the walls don’t pulse with filth. The darkspawn are as savage and foul as ever, a constant itch in the back of his mind. But they move without purpose, less coordinated than beasts. Were it not for the sheer numbers of them, they would barely be a threat.

It’s a slow and thankless job to begin with. The folk of Gwaren remember who beheaded their Teyrn, and they’re not shy to spit in front of him as he makes his way through the streets. In their first week they turn back an assault on the town, and feelings thaw somewhat. Once below ground it takes time to liaise with the Legion of the Dead, and they’re every bit as ungracious towards Sigrun.

It doesn’t matter: they do their work, driving the swarm back and back until they can herd them into pockets and eliminate them. After each battle Velanna picks over the dead, rolling them onto their backs and examining their faces.

“Is she looking for something?” Alistair wonders.

“Not some_ thing _,” says Sigrun softly, and her expression keeps him from asking more questions.

He wears Bethany’s kerchief around his wrist. It smells of nothing more than honeysuckle and leather, but it brings to mind all of her, the metal tang of her skin and the spindleweed taste of her secret places. It’s lucky that he’s exhausted most times he crawls into his bed roll, when he doesn’t know if it’s day or night above, only that his limbs are lead. She’s the last thing on his mind, _ Bethany, _then he falls asleep fast as a stone dropped into water.

  
  


Bethany’s on watch at the gate house when a contingent arrives. A fierce hope flares and sizzles out as quickly; from this distance, she would sense if they were Wardens. The man riding in front seems to be the person of importance. The rest are guards and retainers, glum and saddle-weary, but their leader offers her a smile and a quick half-bow.

“Well met, Grey Warden,” he calls. “Bann Teagan of Rainesfere.”

“Good day.” She ducks out of the side door; it feels comical for them to be shouting at each other, when there seems to be no threat in simply approaching. When she comes close she shades her eyes to look up at him. “Warden-Acolyte Bethany Hawke. How may I help you?”

Teagan dismounts; she notes that his smile appears to reach his eyes. _ Never trust a man who doesn’t smile with all of his face, _Leandra always said. “I was very much hoping to beg an audience with the Warden-Commander.”

“Oh.” This is not an eventuality she’s been taught to deal with. “Is she expecting you?”

“Perhaps not in the immediate sense, no.”

Hospitality is the easiest instinct to fall back on. “Please come with me, then. The stables are this way. I’ll have to ask that your men remain outside the Keep for the moment, but if they’re content to wait in the grounds I can have food and drink sent out.”

“That will serve wonderfully. Hawke, is it?”

“Bethany, please.”

“Acolyte...does that make you a mage?”

“It’s more that being a mage makes me an acolyte, but you’re close.”

He laughs, a warm and generous sound. “You have me there, Bethany.”

She gestures to Nita, knowing the animals will be taken care of. “If you don’t mind following me?”

“Not in the least.” He keeps pace with her easily up the stairs, hanging back respectfully as she organises refreshment for his entourage. Lyna’s door is closed, muffled voices coming from within.

“I don’t imagine she’ll be long,” says Bethany. “You can take a seat, if you like?”

Teagan sits, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You’ve been a great help, thank you. Do you have somewhere to be? I don’t wish to take up more of your time, but the Commander...I confess I’m a little intimidated.”

“Have you met before?”

“Oh yes,” he says with a grin.

“Then I understand perfectly.” She takes the seat beside him, and they fall into an easy silence. From the corner of her eye she observes him; travel-soiled but elegant, perhaps in his early forties. After a time she fidgets. She draws Alistair’s amulet out, warm in her fingers, and lets the silver threads catch the light.

Teagan glances at her, then stares, a small frown marring his brow. “That’s an unusual amulet.”

“This?” She closes her hand over it, then releases it with a shake of her head. “It was a gift.”

“Somebody gifted you a cracked amulet?”

“Yes.” Bethany can’t keep the fond smile from her face.

“Someone special?”

“Very.” Blushing, she tucks it back beneath her hauberk. “So you’re the Bann of Rainesfere? I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know where that is.”

“There’s no shame to be had. It’s the smallest of bannorns. In the Arling of Redcliffe.”

“Redcliffe?” She sits up with sudden interest, just as the Warden-Commander’s door creaks open and Voldrik exits with a bundle of rolled parchments under his arm.

“Bethany?” Lyna follows, pulling a face when she sees Bethany’s companion. “Teagan.”

“Warden-Commander Mahariel. A pleasure, as always.”

“He’s not here.”

Teagan’s eyes flicker to Bethany. “I had hoped we might discuss…”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Our ravens went unanswered.”

“That _ was _your answer.”

In desperation, Teagan looks to Bethany. “If we could speak in private…”

Lyna crosses her arms. “Bethany deserves to hear this.”

“Then - “

“Come in,” she snaps. “Bethany, this concerns you. But stay here.”

Teagan shoots a last, pained look over his shoulder. Utterly confused, Bethany keeps her seat.

“I gave no sign that such a visit would be welcome,” she hears from behind the open door.

“Arl Eamon wishes to make peace.”

“_Fenedhis_. Eamon senses his relevance fading, and he wants to get Alistair back in his grasp. He shan’t have him.”

“I understand how it might seem that way, but Alistair _is_ family.”

_ “Stop.” _In her days at Vigil’s Keep she’s seen many faces of Lyna Mahariel, but Bethany has never before heard such steely anger. “Do not come to me pretending some attachment to Alistair. He is not your blood - “

“That’s not what matters.”

“I agree.” The elf’s voice fairly vibrates with fury. “I don’t suppose you know this, but I was raised by a family that was not my own. Of the same clan, yes, but they claimed no blood kinship with me.”

“Then you understand - “

“Do _ not _interrupt me again.” She has returned to calm; if anything, it is much more sinister. “Not my blood, but they were my parents. They raised me as their own. They never made me feel less than their child.”

There’s a pause, in which Teagan feels safe to speak up again. “The situation is not the same.”

“You know nothing of the situation, Teagan. I know that it wasn’t your decision to treat Alistair like dirt in the only home he knew. So please don’t lower my opinion of you by defending Eamon’s behaviour.”

“That...that is fair.” She hears a defeated sigh. “If we only had the chance to make up for the past - “

“You had the chance. You tried to manoeuvre him onto the throne despite his wishes. Even now Eamon would make him a puppet. Alistair has purpose in the Wardens. He has friends. He has love. _ Leave him alone.” _

“It was never my intention - “ 

“I don’t give a single fuck about your intentions, Bann Teagan. As long as they’re aligned with Eamon’s you are not welcome here. If Alistair feels differently he can reach out to you himself - and if he doesn’t, I trust that you have enough honour to respect his wishes.”

There’s a silence, the clearing of a throat. “As you say, Warden-Commander. I will trouble you no longer.”

Bethany stands hurriedly as they exit the Commander’s office. “I...should I show the Bann out?”

“You've travelled far, Teagan. There are options enough in Amaranthine if you should need rest before heading home.” Lyna’s green eyes are drawn in hard lines. “Bethany will escort you back to your men.”

“Thank you for your time,” Teagan says wearily. “Tell him…”

“I’ll tell him nothing.”

“As you wish.” As they make their way back through the Keep, he gives Bethany a crooked smile. “I think I understand. It’s the faults that make the amulet special.”

“No,” she says softly. “The faults make it fragile. There’s no amount of repair to bring it back to what it was.”

“Oh.” The Bann’s shoulders slump. “You will take care of him, won’t you?”

Bethany thinks of him. Of his generous spirit, his self-deprecating nature that somehow cuts deeper than humour. Of his genuine surprise at being valued. “Yes,” she says. “Somebody has to.”

“I am glad.” They’ve reached the top of the staircase now. “We made a mess of him. If there’s anyone capable of making it better...well.” He gives a last bow. “I have faith in you, Bethany Hawke.”

“Nobody should have to fix someone,” she calls to his retreating back. “Just don’t break people. It’s not that difficult.”

He pauses. “I am sorry. For what it’s worth. You can tell him that if you wish, but I’d be happier if he heard it from me.” He offers her a final smile, a salute that she’s sure isn’t mocking. “Farewell.”

  
  


The sea air in Gwaren makes him think of her. But then, what doesn’t? He’s weary, so weary, and he misses her deep in his bones. He glances down at his tankard; unexpectedly empty.

“Bollocks.”

“Can I offer you a drink, warden?”

The stranger's in a low-cut dress - he’d hate to jump to conclusions, but everything about her screams _doxy_. There’s something of the Chasind in her look - not surprising, with nothing but the Brecilian Forest between here and the Wilds - and when she lifts her chin, earrings of bone swing at her lobes.

“I can fetch my own, thank you.”

“It’d be a lot more pleasant if I did it for you.”

“Maybe so. But I’d rather avoid the strings attached, if it’s all the same.”

“Come on now.” She approaches him, hips conspicuously swaying. “Can’t I give a hero a hero’s welcome?”

He can’t help but glance at the kerchief at his wrist.

“Oh. A sweetheart?” The girl leans against the railings on the tavern deck. “She wouldn’t begrudge you a night of pleasure, surely? Not after the work you’ve done.”

“She might. It doesn’t matter. I’d begrudge it myself.” He looks up, relieved beyond measure at the approach of Sharp. “All well?”

The elf doesn’t deign to spit, a sure sign that all is not well. His knuckles are bloodied and a bruise ripens on his cheekbone. Whatever led him to leave Gwaren, it seems time has not healed all wounds. “Sent your raven.”

“Appreciate it.” The empty tankard still taunts him; the doxy watches him with hopeful eyes. “Anyone for cards?”

Sharp grimaces. “Wicked Grace or Diamondback?”

“I’m shit at both. Don’t mind.”

The girl gives him a wolfish grin. “Don’t mind if I play?”

“I’d be delighted.”

She offers a theatrical pout. “You won’t let me win now, will you?”

Alistair stands up, every joint protesting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He’s got coin to spare; and she might go to bed with a full belly, and alone to boot. “Let’s get a pitcher.”

  
  


It’s another rainy day, grey and dark. The Gwaren operation has come to an end; a success, by all accounts, including from the raven that arrived last week.

_ He’s coming. _

Bethany’s body is busy nowadays, crowded with a hundred threads of sensation. For years there’s been the magic, coiled like a spring. Then the taint, black and oily; the awareness of her fellow Wardens, a small consciousness like movement caught in the corner of an eye. Lately there's been Alistair: tainted as the rest but with a swirl of gold, a beacon in the darkness.

It’s evening at Vigil’s Keep. The driving rain keeps the wardens indoors for all but the most essential tasks; they crowd the hall, drying sodden garments by the fire and playing at dice.

Bethany turns her head to the east.

She’s off-duty. Not much prepared for the weather in her woollen dress, but she dons an oiled cloak and puts proper boots on before venturing outside. The world is grey: the drops are relentless, but not freezing. She nods to the warden at the gate, raises a hand in response to their question: she couldn’t have heard them even in perfect weather over the thunder in her ears.

_He’s coming._

Rain beads in her eyelashes and drums against her hood, shifts direction in seconds so the deluge drenches her neckline. _Closer now. Closer._

In the grey there’s a heavy tread, growing faster and faster. She begins to run as well, blinded by the rain. Home, he’s home, he’s _home_. And he _is_, a shape coalescing from the mist, a solid wall that she crashes into with a sob.

Alistair buries his mouth in her damp neck, his voice emerging muffled and broken. "You don't know how I missed you."

"I do," she assures him, kissing every accessible inch of his face. "I do."


End file.
